


The Shape of Our Perfection

by Teaandcakes



Series: Beyond Ourselves [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Angst, BDSM, Boxing, Discussion of historic child sexual abuse, Drug Use, Equestrian!lock, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Homophobic Language, John has a darker moment, M/M, Mental Instability, Mycroft may have had a sexy moment, Parentlock, Racist Language, Rape, Whump, bottomlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 114,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1973175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaandcakes/pseuds/Teaandcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's baby is soon to be born. This should be the happiest moment of his life. But Sherlock is like a jigsaw, the pieces gradually just disappearing. One at a time, so that John doesn't notice until it's too late.</p><p>Then John suddenly isn't there to notice anymore. And Sherlock melts away. With perfect timing, in the middle of all this mess, baby Holmes is here....</p><p>This story is about navigating a relationship when both parties have elements of damage. But it's also ultimately about the power of enduring hope. And about making a relationship in real life. With a scowling baby.</p><p>.............</p><p>I am haffieliesel on Tumblr and post regular updates, so pop in and say Hi!!</p><p>NB first couple of chapters are scene setting, action gets going in Ch 3 onwards so stick with it until then!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Countdown

It was ironic, John Watson reflected, as he held open the door of the taxi for 'Alicia'. This was the second time, that he, John Hamish Watson, had accompanied women whose real name he didn't know, to antenatal classes relating to babies that were not actually his........Maybe he should go into this on a professional basis. Pre-birth manly "doula" services, anyone? Hmmm, maybe a limited market, that.

At least, he reflected; this time, unlike previously, he knew it wasn't his baby before it was born. And this was Sherlock's baby. 

Alicia-not-Alicia might be more than seven months pregnant, but John was still struggling to get his head around the fact that Sherlock Holmes, yes, Him, with the coat and scarf and scorching brilliance, and the car crash of a personal history; was actually going to be a father? The idea seemed bizarre beyond all reasonable limits. 

The chances of Sherlock being approved to adopt any child.......Um, yeah, that'd be zero, pretty much? Drug addiction, periods of borderline prostitution, suicide attempts, and a fascination with body parts and mortuaries tended to come under 'None of the Above' on social workers tick-lists of "desirable parental qualities". John could picture their brains fizzing at the very idea of it.

But dabble around with some bodily fluids in a petri dish, and find someone loyal enough to the Holmes master-race project (Life President: Mummy Holmes) to provide eggs to mix with some Sherlockian swimmers; and Bob's your uncle, a baby. Or in this case, Mycroft's your uncle. What a truly chilling thought for a tiny infant to face in life, John thought. 

He shook his head, as if he thought perhaps shaking up his thoughts like a toy snow globe would make them land in a more ordered fashion. They didn't. They never did, because that wasn't how life with a Holmes man worked, and John knew that only too well by now. Go with the flow, he told himself, and don't question what you can't change.

.............

So, instead of fretting, he sat back in the taxi's black vinyl bench seat, and called out to the cabbie the Ealing address where 'Alicia' still lived with her family, and where they would remain until after the baby was born. It would have been much cheaper by Tube but a Holmes cargo only got the very best. 'Alicia' talked happily during the long journey about how she planned to spend that evening, poring over the property details of her family's proposed new farm home in Herefordshire. This had been chosen in equal measure as convenient for her impending appointment to an administration role at the nearby SAS headquarters, (which might have had some input from a certain 'minor member' of the British Government), and the rolling pastures it afforded for her children's promised ponies. 

Ponies and a farm: both of which this prized Holmes baby still to be born, and whose sex was unknown (at Sherlock's request), was unknowingly paying for, via an impressively convoluted trail of offshore accounts, the dark cloak of the Holmes Family Trust, and probably some re-routing via obscure M16 accounts, just to ensure no attention was cast as to the (certainly unlawful) level of the payments to 'Alicia' as the surrogate. 

John didn't know how much money had changed hands. He knew Anthea-not-Anthea had refused to accept any money for her role as egg provider; but this surrogacy by a stranger was on a different scale of commitment and risk, and a small farm in Herefordshire, even if really just a small holding, had to be upwards of half a million easily? He was pleased for 'Alicia' though; she was blooming and seemed very relaxed about the whole weird business.

The same could not be said for the father-to-be. That was, when one could actually track him down to ask him.

..................

 

The view of Sherlock's impending fatherhood being classified as 'bizarre', was one on which Sherlock Holmes himself had not expressed any opinion. In fact, he'd said very little about the whole subject. Initially seeming excited but daunted, the patina of novelty had worn quickly away, making John realise just how much of a child in some ways Sherlock still was himself, his interest engaged and then lost as he moved onto more lasting enthusiasms. That, he knew, was a concern, as Sherlock might be avoiding the issue now, but it was not going to go away, quite the opposite.

No one, least of all John, had any way of knowing whether the child's birth would be a transformative turning point for the detective, or a traumatic trigger to send him spiralling in a familiar pattern. Either was possible; it's just that now, the Holmes family had decided to take that risk. Even Mycroft didn't know, and he knew everything. The only certainty was that the next generation of this peculiar family was soon to land on Planet Earth, whether the genetic father was ready or not.

In fact, had John, or come to that, Mycroft, really been paying attention to Sherlock, really closely observing, rather than focusing on M16 missions and the plans for the new baby; one of them might have detected earlier than they did, that Sherlock had already started to become a more elusive creature these days. And that his silence was not lack of interest in the subject, but inability to cope with it.

..................

John hadn't initially noticed Sherlock's fading out, the turning down of the volume of his presence. It was a gradual process, practicalities conspired too, and John was pre-occupied with his medic work for the Security Services, and preparations for the new arrival. 

John and Sherlock still slept together every night. At least, they did when John was there, which wasn't always the case, since he had been doing quite a few short notice extractions of undercover agents from flaring-up conflict zones in the last few months, meaning some enforced absences. These helped to ensure John wasn't quite as observant as he might have been in monitoring Sherlock. John was keen to agree to the missions because of the blissful crack of adrenalin, which was, after all, why he'd signed up with M16, and because he wanted to be contributing financially, so that he felt a full part of the new family given he wasn't a biological parent. 

They still had a lot of very good sex, John thought. Not as adventurous, it's true, as it was before that horrific night John was arrested for almost killing Sherlock during a PTSD nightmare; since John wouldn't use anything, other than his hand, on Sherlock anymore. It wasn't open to discussion. No whips, no canes, no paddles, and only binds from which Sherlock himself could free himself. 

But the sex was still really, really good. And there was still a lot of it. Plenty. Sometimes, often; John was late for an assignment and had to run out of the door, still tucking himself away, and race to get to RAF Northolt for his ride to some hostile location. A medic was always required on these trips, and John even got to do some treating of casualties in the field. Sometimes these were locals caught up in the conflict, sometimes Six agents or their contacts. 

So John was pretty fulfilled and happy. 

He assumed Sherlock was too, though he appreciated that John being the one jetting off to war zones, while Sherlock was shaking test tubes in the Home Counties might not have been exactly what Sherlock had envisaged, when they both signed their contracts for M16 six months ago......

...............

It was during the daytime hours that small pieces of the overall jigsaw of their lives started to disappear. 

Sherlock was doing a lot of advanced chemistry work, mainly on ingredients for the more sophisticated and deadly varieties of explosives used in domestic terrorism. In some ways this seemed more the province of Five rather than Six: but the funding and instigation of these plots were almost all international, from the various ever-name-changing shadowy jihadist groups, so Sherlock was called in by Mycroft. 

He spent most of his days at the MOD secure labs, which, for reasons of safety, were housed in an old electricity board training centre in Hertfordshire, a little way north of London. John had been up there once or twice. It struck him as incongruous; looking out at green fields and peacefully grazing sheep and horses, while analysing substances which, in the right combination, would kill hundreds of people on packed commuter trains, or bring down buildings, or planes. 

But John didn't have the chemistry expertise to be able to contribute much, and the canteen food at the labs was inedible; so mainly he stayed away, and when he was at home sent Sherlock off in the early hours of each morning with little packages of cut-up food in plastic tubs. The other chemists thought it was cutesy, and some made comments. Sherlock didn't rise to the teasing, and John resisted the urge to outline to them exactly why it was that someone would, and could, only eat in this format. He just wished people thought a little more before they teased; realised that oddities in others often had logical and sensitive causes. Odd people weren't just "odd". 

The days John was absent on M16 missions, he knew Sherlock barely ate. He would eat the prepared stuff John left boxed up in the fridge, but cubing food into dice that small, especially vegetables, made them go off more quickly, so once it got to Day Two and beyond, he could only rely on Sherlock perhaps dipping into their snack cupboard, containing the sorts of things he knew Sherlock could eat. Or, usually, not. It was frustrating that Sherlock didn't seem able to pick up a knife and do it himself, but John reasoned that one out. 

Because of this, and because he missed Sherlock too much, John refused missions which were likely to last more than three days. 

.................

He was surprised then, with this diet pattern and sedentary day job, to see Sherlock's physique changing in a positive way, rather than him lose tone and muscle. If anything, he was just as thin but wiry and more muscular. Sherlock nodded vaguely when John asked about it, and said he was using a gym at the labs. John didn't remember there being one when he'd been shown round, but supposed it made sense there would be, probably housed in an outbuilding or somewhere, a building he hadn't seen. Then Sherlock was distracted by his phone and got an urgent text he had to deal with. When he'd finished with his phone, Sherlock asked John if he liked Sherlock's body as much now, in its more ripped physique, as before? John didn't appreciate the deliberate distraction technique, and fell like a stone for the ploy; as he proceeded to show Sherlock just how much he liked Sherlock's body by leading him into the kitchen, and taking him roughly from behind over the kitchen table.....

To avoid congestion charge headaches, and to be able to weave through stationary traffic (legal in the UK, not that Sherlock would have paid any notice if it wasn't), Sherlock had invested in a motorbike; a Honda Deauville. John wondered when he had got himself a bike licence : it would need to be a full licence for that size of tourer, not just the permissions on his driving licence? But then he supposed Mycroft could just order a licence to be printed, given his minor government role. Come to that, who knew if Sherlock had actually ever taken a driving test for his existing driving licence anyway? The fact he was good at something didn't always mean he'd followed the strictly legal route to it.

With the advent of 3D printers, he wondered what else Mycroft ordered to be printed these days....he imagined all sorts of torture instruments and weapons? 'You can have any kind of extruded plastic unmanned drone bomber you like, Mr Stoat, but I'm afraid we've run out of all the colour ranges except 'Wainscot Drab'.....

....................

 

So, instead of enjoying his Sherlock buzzing round the flat, creating messes and explosions in his brand new attic lab, and getting excited with John about the prospect of becoming a father, John found himself either knee-deep in international conflict, on adrenaline-fuelled military operations; or else rattling around alone in an empty echoing flat, cleaning to keep the nursery baby-ready; and awaiting the return of a sexier skinnier youthful version of Meatloaf roaring down Baker Street in the evening. There was nowhere to park the bike, but Sherlock just dumped it on the yellow lines, collected the daily parking tickets and sent them monthly to Mycroft via the Royal Mail and with no stamp on the envelope. Some foreign embassies did the same, ignoring congestion charge notices and parking fines; the difference was that Mycroft arranged for these tickets to be paid.....

Sherlock was late so often, that John had the passing thought that a Hostess trolley might be a useful and stylishly retro touch to keep the food hot. Then he shook his head. 'God', he thought to himself, 'Exactly when did I become a combination of a commando and 1960's housewife?'........as he looked up from cleaning his gun at the ceiling cornices and concluded they could do with a damp cloth over them again...

It did strike John sometimes, too, that it seemed that Sherlock was always busy on the antenatal class nights, even if the class leader had to alter them. And that although he didn't exactly change the subject when Baby was mentioned, which of course was much more frequent now as it got closer to due date, he certainly didn't prolong discussions. 

John put it down to first time father nerves. And to settling down, work wise. He should have paid more attention. Really, really he should. As a spy, John was missing the mark here, badly. But then, he was more of a soldier and a medic than he ever would be a spy, and his relationship with Sherlock was so close and tight that he knew he had no need to worry about Sherlock or their relationship. 

Except he was wrong.


	2. How Sherlock is really spending his time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to historic child sexual abuse

Announcement from S Holmes, Esq.  
Sherlock would like to officially concede at this point, that he wasn't always at the MOD labs when John thought that he was. This didn't really need saying, but he is prepared to admit it, for the record.....

........................

He did, he would point out in his defence, do a lot of work there, although much of it he dismissed as tedious and mind-creakingly boring. Like all workplaces he encountered, it was run by imbeciles and utter idiots; and it was only the scale of the threat posed, and his proven ability to get the work done much quicker than the other scientists, giving the security services more time to prevent atrocities, that just about kept him there for the hours he did put in. 

Added to which his language skills, useful in extracting Ms Adler from her unforgivably unfriendly Karachi captors, were invaluable in combination with his scientific ones. It was one thing he and John shared, a basic knowledge of Urdu, Dari and Pashto.

Probably, he was there about 80% of the time John thought he was. 

.............

Of the remaining time, a proportion was spent with Tamara, his therapist. These sessions continued to be both helpful, in terms of the emotional release they eventually provided, and also extremely difficult; because unlike the dictionary definition of catharsis which included an element of 'cleansing and purification'; for Sherlock, there was a distinct bell curve on those aspects. Down, down, down first: every session staggering out feeling literally drowning in contamination by the areas covered in the session. Only much later did the shedding of the dirt and sweat and guilt and disgust happen in relation to individual revelations. Even then, it was only partial. It was time to talk about this stuff, he knew, he couldn't go to his grave with all this poison and pain inside him, but it didn't make it any easier. He hoped he might feel healed by it, in time.

He could have worked with it, in a window of peace and calm, free from other pressures, but that wasn't what he'd been given. The free hours that were left outside of work and therapy, then, were the very time when he felt tainted and dirtied by the events he was discussing. So there was no relaxation : there was no escape.

The worst session for a while, had been a few weeks back. 

Coming into the room. Sitting down. Handing over a Tesco bag of everyday objects to Tamara. These objects, utterly prosaic; but for Sherlock representing the items, other than Lang himself, that Jonathon Lang had used on the eleven year old William Holmes' body. Tamara carefully tipping them out onto the table, where they rolled around, the more sinister for their blank ordinariness. Like film monsters, and mass murderers, the banality only amplifying the evil.

They were still all objects that Sherlock, a whole quarter of a century having passed, (Was it really that long, to have come so short a distance from it all?), looked twice at, maybe three times, before he would use them for their intended purposes. Or not use at all, if he were honest. 

Alternatives were sought where possible. Using a comb, not a long handled hairbrush. Fake candle bulbs, not real church type candles. Japanese knives with coloured integral handles, not old fashioned ones with large bulky black handles. If he absolutely had to use any of the items which triggered him, he would close his eyes. Which worked passably with a hairbrush, but was challenging with a sharp kitchen knife.....

Even vegetables were implicated. The need to cut all his food into small cubes wasn't solely why Sherlock allowed and encouraged John to manage all the food preparation at 221B; and even tolerated the humiliations of being sent to work with a packed lunch prepared by his lover. It was because if Sherlock himself had to prepare the food, he might be simultaneously faced with several trigger items at once. The kitchen knife, and the vegetables he was preparing. 

It was also why, if John wasn't there, Sherlock either didn't eat, or ordered a takeaway and ate it over the two or three nights John was absent. It didn't make for an exciting, or especially balanced diet, and wasn't enough, since his version of ordering a takeaway was ordering one portion of spring rolls. The takeaway normally put these in fours, but Sherlock always asked for only three - one for each night John would be away. He made the takeaway cut them up into small pieces for him before he collected them. They knew him well enough not to question it: it was even part of the training new staff were given. All of them would then ask 'Why?'. All would be given a shrug as the only reply.

Facts like this, elaborate coping strategies, made him feel pathetic; like a less than fully realised adult; and were one reason Sherlock was finally going through the pain of exposing the wounds in therapy: well, that, along with the fact it was a condition of Mycroft securing John's release from prison, and the GBH charges being dropped. But it did feel like he was flaying himself open each time he went. He didn't know if it was helping him or not. If it was helping, that help was hidden to him.

.................

He tried to expel the corruption, and speed the process of full cathartic release, by now undertaking a regime of intense physical activity. Like all Sherlock 'enthusiasms' (Mrs Hudson's term, although 'obsessions' would probably be more accurate), he did nothing by half-measure. 

It wasn't in the gym, as he'd told John. There was no gym, of course, there never had been, just a concession discount for a local facility about five miles away in Watford, for staff working at the site. Sherlock wasn't into gyms, and having googled Watford, decided he probably wasn't that much into Watford either.

Instead, he took up fencing again, in which he had excelled at school, and found he still enjoyed it. The accuracy, the lightness on his feet, the controlled aggression. The winning. Especially the winning. The solo nature of it.

He also swam some mornings each week in the pools on Hampstead Heath, before heading north to the lab; revelling in the cold ink-dark waters, feeling the breeze and the (rare) sunshine against his wet face. No one recognised him here, devoid of Belstaff and hair soaked and flattened. Nobody bothered him. He liked it best when it rained, as no-one much swam then; and sometimes he would turn up at the first soft light of dawn, and swim naked, twisting and turning and diving like an otter. The weather was closing in now, the autumn well set-in, and he looked forward to the day he would have to break the ice before he got in. To feel the air suddenly leave his lungs with the shock of entering the freezing water.

He was light enough, and gained enough muscle strength, to be able to find a National Hunt racehorse trainer near the MOD centre, willing to accommodate him, and rode out, the mornings he didn't swim, in the second string of steeplechasers, feeling the sting of the surface kicked up and hitting his face, as he asked his mount for a piece of fast work up the gradient, head-to-head with their stable-mate, then asking it to quicken, and pushing a neck, half a length ahead. It wasn't quite like draghunting the aniseed trails back at home, hurtling at a zillion miles an hour over stone walls and hedges and wire with mud in his face and thirty horses alongside, strung out in a roaring line like a cavalry charge: that was the ultimate : but it was still an adrenalin rush, and he'd missed horses. 

He kept his boots and hat at the trainers. He'd had the boots and some silks made when he'd point-to-pointed whilst at Oxford, for that sweet, short period before he lost the plot at the end of the first year, and began getting his exercise by means of bending over for his drug dealers, rather than competing on horseback between the flags. 

The last race he rode that long-ago season, near Bicester, the last he'd ridden at all; he'd won, on an aged game bay hat-rack of a mare. He'd toppled slowly off the horse twenty yards after the winning post. His mount merely looked grateful for the lack of human burden, and started cropping the grass. The trainer and owner didn't mind. If he'd done it before the line, that would have been different as he'd have been disqualified, which would have meant no prize money and no glory. As it was, he picked himself up and remounted for the photograph, black and white still in those days, for the Horse & Hound photographer. 

He still had a copy of the photo somewhere. John might like to see it? He didn't want to look at it himself; as like all photos from his youth, it reminded him of what came before and next. This was the way his abuse and the consequences of it sucked away all the colour and joy from the memories.

It was a good job they didn't drug test the lowly amateurs race, as that day young "Mr W. Sherlock Holmes" as he was announced as an amateur gentleman rider, would have blown the testing equipment apart, with his concentrations of coke and amphetamines. He couldn't race again, he knew then. He couldn't coordinate well enough any more to actually get on the horse, let alone point it at a winning post. 

Besides, he couldn't afford to get to the racecourse any more, or, come to that, even the trainer's yard closer to Oxford. He had no money; Mycroft had finally pulled the plug after one too many calls from the Thames Valley Constabulary; and everything he now had left, was going up his nose, down his throat, or, more often now, straight into his veins. Hence he sold himself. It didn't likely count as varied aerobic exercise, but it did get him the next fix, which rapidly became all that counted. 

Oblivion replacing glory. Numbness replacing ambition. 

...............

He told John he was going to the (mythical) gym, and that his overly sweaty appearance when he arrived home each night was due to the gym sessions; that, and the hot motorbike leathers. John asked no awkward questions. Because of the leathers....John liked Sherlock in his motorbike leathers. Very much. Enjoyed removing them even more. 

And John; kind, trusting John, whose trust had been betrayed many times before, had no reason to think that Sherlock would deliberately betray him. 

He didn't do it, really, not deliberately. But betrayal doesn't have to be deliberate to hurt, and lies have a tendency to snowball. He didn't know why he didn't feel able to tell John, other than not wanting to start a conversation about why he was struggling so much that would make John worry, and frown, and perhaps argue, maybe drink too much, perhaps fuck a woman he met in the pub, and then, perhaps, ultimately, leave him. 

And that, John leaving, couldn't be allowed to happen. 

So, instead, he lied. Which he knew was stupid and foolish and probably more likely to lead to all the stuff he feared, but it put off that day. It was a childish tactic, but people always told him he was really more like a child, than a mature adult. Give a dog a bad name and hang him.

...............

It didn't work entirely, this new physical regime. Sherlock came to realise that quite quickly. He couldn't free his mind completely. Even galloping, even diving to the murky depths, even fencing. 

He was still trapped by several things. 

By the lack of John's hand on the cane or the whip to bring him to the precious white space in his head. That was an increasing problem. 

By the anguish of the therapy sessions. This was a constant problem. 

And most pressing, by the panic that was rising within him at the prospect of the child who was soon to be born. Panic that was making him for the first time in a year, viciously crave the drugs that had ruled his life for so long before John came into his life and offered hope of redemption. This was a problem reaching a crescendo. It was making him afraid, not only of the baby coming, but of himself.

He couldn't talk to John about the issues following the therapy sessions. He couldn't tell him that he wasn't coping without the element of physical discipline in their relationship that John now deemed out of bounds. He couldn't tell John that he didn't think he could cope with this baby. Not when this baby was what was keeping John out of prison, just as the death of Moran had kept Sherlock a free man. He couldn't even whisper what he feared feeling most: that perhaps he didn't want the baby at all?

He hadn't meant to lie to John, he just didn't want to hurt him. And he suspected John, caring, made-to-be-a-Dad John, who was so brave to take all this on after the Rebecca betrayal, wouldn't understand how at bay, like an exhausted hunted deer, he felt, instead of thrilled. Sherlock wondered what kind of man he was, to be in any way qualified to be the father to a helpless infant. He preferred to see John talk of the child, prepare for the child, and know that John would love the child, because he knew that he, Sherlock, might not be able to do so. 

The more withdrawn he became, the more important it was to know that John would be there, would look after the little one. Would do the right thing, if he himself could not. Or if he himself was not there at all to do it.

And his answer in the end, to his incessant self interrogation about why he was doing all this; that he repeated over and over again as he lay awake, listening to the sound of Johns huffing breaths in his sleep and watching the regular flashing light of the small wireless machine that monitored John's sleep and any onset of nightmares, for their joint safety; was, 'It keeps John out of prison.'


	3. Is This What You Really Want, Sherlock?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may say the chapter title in a Lorne Malvo (Fargo) voice, if you would like. I found this it be very pleasing :-))))

It was approximately six weeks before his baby was due to be born, that Sherlock Holmes finally cracked, and rang his elder brother, Mycroft. 

'I can't do it.'

Mycroft sighed.

'Good morning, brother dearest. 

Sherlock, please do articulate yourself clearly. You are shortly to be a parent to the lonely scion of the next generation of a great and ancient family; a family who take pride in their linguistic articulation. Do at least try to set some approximation of an adequate example to the next generation.'

Sherlock bit his lip hard.

'That's what I can't do. This whole thing. The baby. I can't do it, Myc. I'm trying everything to keep my head together and I can't. I'm worried.....I've tried everything I can think of and it isn't working.

I'm worried I'm going to start using again.'

There was a pause. A long one. Not a surprised pause. A disappointed and weary pause.

'And you mean that as a serious and imminent risk?'

'A clear and very very present fucking danger right now. Mycroft, I am pacing up and down a street precisely now looking for a dealer. At this moment. 

I've brought the money too.'

There came a long sigh from the other end of the phone, and the sound of a drawer opening and closing. Then the ruffle of papers being flicked through. 

'I suppose I am grateful to you, Sherlock, for at least having the sense to call me, on this occasion, before the event. Does John Watson know about this specific fear?'

'No, he doesn't.'

'Does he know about your fears more generally, concerning the baby?'

'Not more than a vague awareness, that I'm perhaps not as engaged in preparations as he had hoped.'

'And you do know, Sherlock, that many first time parents apparently share your worry, but that it dissipates when the baby is born - very often immediately?'

'I accept that is a possibility, dear brother; but I do not think it possible that I will reach that point in time without using.'

'Tell me, Sherlock? How are things with John? At home. Chez "Baker Street"? And when I say, "How are things?", I do of course, mean, Things?'

'None of your business, Mycroft.'

'Of course not. Naturally so.

Except, isn't that partly why you are contacting me, Sherlock? You might simply be wanting me to ratchet up the surveillance levels on 221B and yourself, in order to try to prevent you using drugs again. But I am sensing that isn't it, that something more is required? There is more, isn't there? Hence the question about John, Sherlock.' 

A sulky pause.

'Yes, of course there's more. You know what I'm referring to. Do I have to spell it out, Mycroft? Really?'

A long silence.

'Come and see me. Now, please Sherlock.'

.................

Sherlock was sitting in Mycroft's office about an hour after this terse telephone conversation, now morose and distracted, swinging round in a chair. He was what the Scots Holmes contingent would call 'crabbitty', and the English side of the family 'grumpy as a Northern Line commuter'. He could now think of little else but cocaine. 

Mycroft looked curiously at his brother. Sherlock's mood was clear: absolutely foul. Mycroft had worked out the several-fold reasons for that. No need to describe those....

Then he assessed his sibling's physical shape. Sherlocks frame was spare and wiry but very muscled. He was obviously doing a lot of physical exercise, quite a few different types. Not gym, Mycroft concluded? More varied and hands-on than that, looking at him. 

The only activity he knew about already, was the fencing; as he was a member of the same fencing club in Chelsea as Sherlock; and he'd noted with surprise his brother's name in the booking schedule, when he had turned up for a regular bout with an old Eton chum several nights back.

Mycroft preferred the light foil; Sherlock (who just had to be different), tended to favour the épée or sabre. However, the brothers had duelled together in the past, alternating their favoured weapons each bout to balance the advantage. Mycroft wondered why Sherlock hadn't chosen him as his opponent now?

But aside from that, the fencing wouldn't achieve the observed body shape change on its own. He resolved to have some CCTV footage dug out, to solve this small mystery. What was little brother up to, when he should be wielding a pipette and a centrifuge, to vanquish our chums in Al Quaeda? He didn't think Sherlock was undergoing an early onset mid-life crisis just yet, trying to maintain a fading physique. His physique was, well......Anyway....Mycroft was not 'going there'. 

Mycroft concluded, in the manner of a medical consultant mentally deciding on a diagnosis, what now needed to be done.

He signalled to Sherlock to stop his chair swinging and to please pay attention. Sherlock did stop spinning, but instead moved onto a new distraction of ripping a paper tissue into tiny strips instead, and hanging them from Mycroft's desk top banker's lamp like some Victorian tart's parlour fancies. He hung one over his nose and started puffing up at it like Popeye with his pipe.

Mycroft frowned, and blew the offending fringing off the lamp. The nose fringe also lost its fight to cling on. Sherlock scowled. Mycroft glowered.

'This baby, a very much wanted baby by all the family, is going to be here very soon, Sherlock. You need to be mentally 'in the right zone' by then, to use the fetid parlance of modern popular culture. That means not using any illegal narcotics, nor prescription ones, under any circumstances; since if you succumb, the child may be removed from you. If achieving the goal of you being clean, means undertaking some lesser unsavouriness, then so be it. Though I had hoped to avoid it.

So, brother mine, I will help you. In two respects. Here is the first address.'

He scribbled something on a thick cream card and handed it over. It was an address somewhere in East London. Not Docklands. Not East London near to the City? Rougher patch. South East-ish. Catford way. 

Sherlock looked up. But Mycroft didn't offer any more information. Sherlock silently nodded and pocketed the card.

Then Mycroft took another card and wrote another address on it. This time, the address was in Tintern Mansions, very exclusive flats (or 'sets' as they were archly called, in the manner of Hercule Poirot), situated almost next door to the Royal Academy, on Piccadilly. 

So grand, and yet rubbing shoulders closely to the rent boys and prostitutes who plied their trade under the disapproving glare of the statue of Eros and the flashing neon advertising hoardings. Mycroft wondered whether it was a safe location to have his brother navigating through, even briefly. 

Mycroft then wrote a short note on his own headed paper with his fountain pen, and folded it and put it in an envelope, which he sealed. A name was written on the front.

Find your way to Tintern Mansions', a pause, 'without getting entangled in any......trouble, Sherlock, and give the doorman this letter of introduction. They will assist. I, as a current though not active member, have proposed you for membership. I will also arrange for a seconder to be provided: without it you will not be granted access. This seconder role, Sherlock, is limited to members of the current Privy Council of Her Majesty the Queen.' 

Sherlock's eyebrow raised.

Mycroft allowed himself one last raking and assessing look at his brother; and then had to wave him to go, and properly shoo him out; since the Foreign Secretary was threatening yet another ill-advised intervention overseas, which he incredibly believed could be both 'short term' and 'limited in scope'. He'd even heard the words 'military precision' used.......Laughable, frankly. He suspected John Watson could have told the Foreign Secretary just how much 'precision' was left on any active battlefield when your opponents have lived there for centuries and can melt away back into the mountains that they know better than their own children? Had David not even looked at a map of the region he was targeting, thought Mycroft? Or read the history books? Any history book, in fact? Apparently not. He called up a large scale map onto his screen, and sighed.

Sensing a presence still hovering in the room a few moments later, he looked up. 

Fidgety Sherlock, still here, pulling at his curls at the back of his head, pacing to and fro. Muttering under his breath, curses and imprecations.

'Do it, Sherlock. You could tell John about the first. I really wouldn't recommend you tell him about the second, but it's your choice. Though he will notice soon enough, I imagine. You won't be able to hide it. But whatever you do, or don't, tell John, do It soon, Sherlock.'

The auburn head bent back down to his papers, and after fidgeting again for a moment, Sherlock was gone, slamming doors on his way out, and outraging minions.

'Disgustingly ungrateful as always. And with a corporeal perfume redolent only of stale sweat and self pity', thought Mycroft, not without fondness.

As soon as Sherlock had definitely left, Mycroft picked up his phone and speed-dialled a secure number.

'Lady Smallwood?. Mycroft Holmes. I have a small favour to ask of you.'


	4. A New Hobby for Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much longer proper chapter this time, getting into the story now :-)))
> 
> Note: Smut - short but sweet

Several days after his mysterious conversation with Mycroft, and having only just managed to abstain from hard drugs in the meantime, his success due to John having been at home, and them spending most of the time in bed with John-sex on tap; Sherlock now stepped off the train at Catford with some distaste. 

He accepted it made more sense to come by train; but it still didn't mean he had to like it. There seemed to be a need for all speech to be yelled, announcements about 'next station stops' every twenty seconds, and no concept of effective air conditioning or body odour control amongst his fellow travellers. Public transport really wasn't his métier, he decided.

He cut an odd and solitary figure, clutching his bulky sports holdall, dressed in running gear with the Belstaff on top, as he wandered down the platform, deducing passengers as he went, glancing around occasionally. Several people thought he might be drunk, or high, or possibly both: a mother with small children tucked them firmly behind her skirts as the oddball man passed by. He smiled kindly (he thought) at her which seemed to concern her still further. 'Won't try that again, then?' he thought.

There was some small unpleasantness at the ticket barrier, as he hadn't realised one was supposed to keep the ticket all through the journey. He narrowed his eyes at the ticket inspector with their navy pullover and silver badge saying 'Revenue Protection Officer', and handed over a wad of notes for the penalty fare and the original one. 

'Next time', he hissed, as he flapped his coat, 'I shall take a Taxi.' The inspector was relieved when he had gone. He hadn't pissed in the corner of the waiting room, but other than that he was clearly one of the usual weirdos and winos. Posh though, for sure; but he knew from late night shifts, that oftentimes the posh ones fell the hardest. Couldn't take the pressure of expectation, most likely. Or drugs. They liked coke a lot, he knew from the state of the toilet cisterns. Not the heroin or crack favoured by the locals.

Sherlock, whose experience of both cocaine and heroin would only have both confirmed and confounded the inspectors impressions; but who was TRYING to not do either today, emerged out of the station; straight into the noise and sticky dirt of a typical London high street, that isn't quite in the centre of the action. Mobile phone shops and downmarket estate agents rubbed shoulders with halal takeaways and ethnic grocers. But the place must be on the up, if one regarded middle-class gentrification as 'up'. There was a Starbucks, a new one, and a lot of the buildings were having major work done. Scaffolding firms must be raking it in. The ripple effect they called it; people priced out of expensive central boroughs, gradually venturing further and further out creating new 'Nappy Valleys'. This was one hell of a ripple to have reached here, he thought. But then, that was London. Eating itself in renewal and then devouring it's neighbouring areas, a monster made of villages and ports and forests and pleasure domes. Xanadu.

Sherlock shivered as he looked around this unfamiliar neighbourhood, and wished he was back in the familiarity of Baker Street, cuddled up with his John, eating Quavers snapped into little pieces, letting them dissolve on his tongue and loudly criticising John's crap tastes in telly. Or better, eating quavers off John's cat-like tongue. Either was good. Then, later, John would take him to their bed and take him apart, using the advanced knot techniques they'd learned for John to restrain Sherlock, and using his hand hard on Sherlock's backside and thighs, and then using his hands and his mouth and his beautiful cock, and Sherlock would have to stay as quiet as a mouse even without any gag, (since he couldn't cope with those) , and he would be unable to touch himself, and John would tell him when to come, untouched, and he would come, on command, to the second for his Captain.

Then the thought that whole life was about to end; that a small tyrant was going to demand all the attention from John, and disrupt Sherlock's entire carefully-constructed protective life fort in 221B, made him feel sick, and angry about the whole affair. John might think it would be good for him to be less obsessive about their relationships, and less selfish and possessive; but he didn't know how one did that? And he didn't see why he should. He knew he was a selfish person, that was him. Sherlock Holmes never pretended to be anything else.

And it wasn't just about the relationship. It was their whole life at Baker Street. He felt he had signed a contract with the Devil, and either way he ended up in the inferno. Either no John, or have John and take this baby too, who would monopolise space and John. Either way he lost a part of John, and much of what he held dear about his life.

..................

For the first time, as he trudged along the stained and gum dotted pavements towards the destination written on Mycroft's first card, Sherlock wondered seriously whether he should just admit defeat now, today; acknowledge his failures, and give the child when born to his parents to bring up. Even at Holmes Manor. Even there. Live his life in London with John, God knows they'd earned the fucking right. Let them deal with the next generation, which they greedily sought, while he tried to manage living through this one. Hadn't done a great job so far. Securing John's love was his only real achievement in his eyes. 

Then he cursed out loud, provoking more disapproving and concerned looks from strangers, as he thought of John's face, once again being parted from a baby he had bonded with. Of the loss of John's own chance to also have his own child, via Anthea and 'Alicia'. And of Holmes Manor, the low honey coloured stone mansion he had turned and looked back at, when leaving for his first term at Oxford, and vowed never to return to. Not to any of it. Of the smell of it. Of that leather topped table. That scalloped edged mahogany desk. That red and black quarry tiled floor. That brass bed. That dirt path behind the summerhouse. All of it imbued with horror and memory. 

Of a baby now living there, with old people and paid staff, a stranger to its father. His own baby.

But he didn't feel competent or capable to father anything. He didn't even have a cat or dog, for lack of confidence in being a responsible owner. And his misgivings weren't helped by reading articles online in the early hours, when John snored quietly beside him, oblivious; about abuse cases with perpetrators who were themselves abused as children. He knew that wouldn't be him. It wouldn't. Couldn't. But the voice inside him whispered; how many of those abusers he was reading about, had also thought that? He wondered if the damage could pass onwards like a genetic defect? He knew he was thinking ridiculous thoughts, but the noise in his mind was getting louder and the pressure was building inside his head. There was no release to be found. He hoped Mycroft had come up with something to help, or he would be back shooting up on the way home.

Sick in heart, Sherlock came back to reality, and realised he was still walking but now he was here at his destination. Whatever here was....

...................

All there seemed to be at 211, Tregoyd Parade, Catford, was a set of large double swing doors in between a travel agents with an apparent monopoly on over-50s coach tours to the Italian Lakes, and an Afro hair salon with some alarmingly futuristic looking suggestions on posters in the windows. There was rubbish on the pavement strewn around from the nearby bus-stop. Mainly from the Chicken Hut 24 hour takeaway a few yards down. Sherlock dodged the gnawed drumsticks and greasy wrappers and stepped forward. 

The doors were black painted, but with the paint peeling off to display the pale yellow they had once sported. There was a stained cheap metal sign above the door, saying simply 'Flanagans'.

He wasn't sure now. He even cast his eyes around to see if he could see any drug dealers, as at present that seemed a much preferable option than the unknown delights of 'Flanagans', and the cravings were becoming strong. But no-one obvious or promising presented themselves, not at this time of day, amongst the mums and buggies, (that was another thing, he now saw children absolutely everywhere), and so, with a flutter of anticipation, he pushed at the black door. It opened. He stepped inside. 

The doorway led straight onto a small lobby and then a set of stairs leading downwards. The air was warm and slightly damp and there was a pervading sour smell of male sweat. He wrinkled his nose. But there were posters on the gloss maroon and cream painted walls that told him about this place. About what men, almost entirely men, did here.

They were boxing posters. 

Aha.....

Sherlock had boxed at Eton, but not since. He lost interest as he found the sparring under Queensberry Rules using padded gloves to be pointless and pedestrian, and disliked the head gear the school insisted on. Finally he was ejected from the club because of his refusal to wear a gum guard.

Of course he couldn't wear one, putting that in his mouth, not with his.... issues...... but he obviously couldn't tell the club officials why, no one at the school knew, so out of the club he went.

He didn't stop fighting of course. It's just that his fights were...more unofficial after that point. Sometimes involving older Eton pupils, that he had deduced and wound up, until they decided that their rule of never hitting the younger kids could suffer an exception in Holmes Minor's case. There were plenty of those, since the very rich families who sent their kids to boarding school, to Eton of all boarding schools, tended to have a high level of marital infidelity and copious lurid scandals for him to nose out and earn himself a bashing.

Other times he would bunk lessons, wandering for hours, and end up in Windsor town centre at throwing-out time, going a few rounds bareknuckle behind the Shamrock Lounge, at the rougher end of town where Windsor slides on its arsecheeks down into the questionable glories of Slough. 

He bought theatrical concealer makeup to hide the bruises from these fights, from a small shop he found in Covent Garden in one of his weekend wandering forays in central London. The shop was tiny and cramped, and it was hard to find what you wanted, but it was close to the Royal Opera House, where he would break in via skylights, and hide in the corridors and cleaners cupboards, to see the dancers practice and hear the opera singers rehearse. He could dance, but not ballet. At school they learned Scottish reeling and English Country dancing, and ballroom. Sherlock ached to learn real ballet. He knew the chance was passing him by as he grew. 

He also ached, if he was completely honest, at the sight of the male dancers. Their aggressively sculpted bodies and stark beauty made him feel physically faint, and he had to abandon the most cramped of his hiding places after he'd passed out from a combination of the stuffy air, lack of food, and the sight of the rear of Carlos Acosta doing stretches about a metre from the keyhole Sherlock was staring unblinkingly through.

He never got to learn ballet.

Mycroft found the Covent Garden concealer in Sherlock's suitcase one summer vac, and told him he was clearly rapidly becoming the next Uncle Rudy. Mycroft didn't threaten to tell anyone, though, just gave him a long quizzical look. And for once Sherlock didn't try to correct him; partly because he really liked Uncle Rudy, and Rudy's wife, Aunty Margaret, always gave him sherbet pips and Edinburgh rock when the Holmes' visited them up in Scotland; but more because he was, as well as covering bruises; also secretly experimenting occasionally with other makeup he had shoplifted from Boots the chemists in Slough; and which he now kept hidden under a loose brick in the base of the school cricket pavilion. 

Possibly practising for future detective disguises? Possibly, and initially that was his clear rationale, but it turned out he also liked the feel and the look of it; and the act of applying the 'mask' made him feel calm and serene, and less ugly inside.

Removing it was more of an issue. One evening, quite early on in his experimentation, he'd come back from Lower Sixpenny playing field, intending to slip in unseen and take it off in the gym toilets, but had been intercepted by one of the beaks, who looked at him in horror. 

He'd tried to evoke Sally Bowles in Cabaret, so there was a lot of eyeliner and mascara and considerable red lipstick; but he'd only had a small travel mirror and suspected he looked more Giant Panda smacked in the mouth, than siren of the Kit Kat Klub. 

He tipped the beak, as protocol demanded, and blurted out the only thing he could think of. 'Rehearsals, sir. Rocky Horror, sir. Frank 'N' Furter. Transvestite. Sweet. Um. Transylvania. Sir.'

Eton beaks were no fools. The school wasn't putting on the Rocky Horror Show. Not this year, not last. Not even next. Probably never. Parents didn't generally pay tens of thousands of her Majesty's finest folding ones, a year, per head, to yearn to find the fruit of their loins/wombs performing in fishnets and slap? But one thing Eton did definitely encourage, was initiative and individuality and independent thinking. Even from this one, who was pushing most boundaries to the limit.

'Very well, Holmes Minor', he said, squinting hard. 'Be off with you. Run along now.'

As Sherlock made to scoot off, relieved, he gasped as his name was called again, and looked back to the teacher still standing there.

'That lipstick. Not your colour, boy. Too cool, it washes you right out. You need something warmer, bring out the red tones in your black hair. Check your pigeonhole tomorrow.'

And so it was that the next day, young Sherlock Holmes (Minor) opened a plain brown envelope, to find a compliments slip from the beak's wife, who was a Good Sort; and an Estée Lauder lipstick colour chart with five different lipstick shades circled and ticked, and others with large crosses against them. There was a money off coupon too, clipped out of a magazine. Sherlock smiled as he remembered this, one of his rare better memories of his schooldays. 

Then the smile dropped away, as he shook his head to bring himself back to the present. He hadn't worn makeup for years, except as disguise, and the only vestige of that time was the eyeliner he kept in his shaving kit. John hadn't commented on it, though John knew it was there. John didn't make a fuss about the trivial, as a general rule. As long as he stayed on the Eddie Izzard side of Grayson Perry, John would be ok with it being there, he reckoned......He hadn't used it, anyway, for years, except for at that club with the Oxford drug dealers, the occasion John saw on Mycroft's CCTV. But it was there. Like stabilisers on a bike.

He tried to concentrate on the present. Shook his head again. More suspicious looks from passers-by. 

....................

Mycroft knew he wasn't interested in legal boxing. Why had he sent him here? All this way out to the rough side of the tracks? He leaned against a telephone box and texted his brother.

'At boxing gym. You know I'm bored by this? Why am I here?'

The answer came back immediately, almost as if it had been anticipated and pre-typed. 

'Go into the main club. Ask for Brendan. There's more to the club than meets the eye. Tell him Mickey sent you. MH'

Sherlocks eyebrows raised. "Mickey"? For God's sake, Mycroft....

He walked into the main subterranean space, finding himself looking at a row of punch bags, weights, and beyond them, several full size boxing rings. 

There didn't seem to be anyone there at first, so he wandered into the changing rooms. Two stocky men were standing at the far end. 

He approached. They turned and looked him up and down, then pointedly turned away again. Clearly they didn't rate him as boxing material. Too old, too skinny, too soft, too posh, was probably what they were thinking. Sherlock bristled. 

'Is Brendan around?'

'Who's asking?', the shorter man said, in a broad Irish accent. Maybe Galway, thought Sherlock? 

'Mickey sent me. He said Brendan could help.'

The two men looked at each other in surprise, and the other man, the slightly taller one, though neither were much above Sherlocks chest, stood up, and beckoned Sherlock over to a door in the far wall. 

'He's in the office, cashing up. Don't rile him up. He's not in a good mood.'

Sherlock nodded his thanks, and strode over to the door, knocked, and entered.

Brendan Flanagan was not the sort of person one would expect Mycroft 'Mickey' Holmes to have encountered in any universe this side of madness. 

He was massive, tattooed and sweating profusely. He looked as if sweating profusely might be a permanent state, rather than an occasional issue. But it was hot and clammy down here. Maybe he never left. Maybe he was a subterranean creature, with gills and a swim bladder? He didn't look a very friendly creature, at any rate, and Sherlock wished for John's solid and reassuring presence at his side, or at the very least John's Sig. The nearest thing to a weapon Sherlock currently possessed was his trainers.

But surprisingly, on Sherlock's hesitant explanation of the message from Mysterious "Mickey", the atmosphere in the small office, where the hulk of a man sat counting what looked like thousands of pounds in very dirty and defaced used notes, lightened considerably. 

'Your brother sent you.'

'He did.'

Sherlock smiled at the man's quickness. Either he was a better deducer than Sherlock himself, or 'Mickey' Holmes had been in touch, between him leaving Mycroft's office and reaching the subterranean delights of a boxing club in Catford.

'Mickey says you're after bare knuckle, not Rules. You don't look much of a fighter.'

'I have my moments.'

Brendan pushed his chair back, stuck his feet on the desk, and regarded Sherlock through a cloud of cigarette smoke. 

Sherlock, unperturbed, leaned back against the wall, and took in the room around him. Plain brick, gloss painted navy blue up to waist height, pale blue emulsion above it. Strip lighting that flickered maddeningly and buzzed like an eternally dying wasp. He noticed there was another door, a metal one this time, on the side wall, behind a filing cabinet. The cabinet could be moved, however; there were castors. 

'Through there?'

Brendan seemed to have come to a conclusion, as he stood up, stubbed out his half smoked fag, and said

'Through there.'

The cabinet was rolled aside, and the metal door revealed. Brendan unlocked it, and signalled Sherlock to follow him.

They came through a short corridor into a large gloomy room, the only natural light coming from skylights of glass blocks let into the pavement above. More painted brick walls. More strip lights. At least these didn't buzz.

There was no suspended floor that gave the feet bounce and grip in here. No weights or punchbags. Just a marked out rope square, some twenty four foot each side, with sand scattered to soak up the blood, a sack of sawdust (same), some buckets, sponges and a cold water tap, and the biggest first aid trunk Sherlock had ever seen outside an ICU in a hospital. 

You fought before? 

'Only street fighting. And that was decades back, as a schoolboy. But I've had a few....pretty serious scraps a year or two back. In Eastern Europe. And Asia. No rules......They didn't survive. I did.'

Brendan looked slightly more comfortable. 

'Well, this ain't street fighting, this is bareknuckle, so there are some rules. Don't bring your murdering ways in here. We keep a low profile. Like, you don't hit your man when he's down; you don't hit below the belt; and there's to be no gouging, kicking or head-butting. No weapons, you will be searched for them. You can wrap your hands if you want to make it nearer legal but most don't.

That's the dull shit part. The good bit is no helmets, no gloves, no gum guards, no nothing. A straight fight. Proper traditional boxing, for men, not fucking girls tickling each other in the O2 Arena. You get me?'

'I get you.' 

'Right. Come back on Thursday, and I'll have you paired up for a short bout. I'm thinking Declan. He's about your size and weight, and he's decent but not world class.'

'And Declan is...'

'Fifteen. But to the police, sixteen. Don't worry, he'll be more than a match. He's up at the travellers site in Deptford, under the flyover. It's a pit, but you should see inside the trailers. Immaculate, you could eat your dinner off the floor. They breed them tough there, they have to. Whole family fights. His granddaddy did Irish Stand Down. It's a cultural thing. You might worry about fighting a kid, son; but I'd concentrate more on retaining your spleen if I were you.'

Sherlock was vaguely concerned about fighting a teenager; but memories of his fourteen year-old self fighting thirty year-olds ex squaddies in the back streets of Windsor and Slough with no rules and no first aid kit, made him put that aside quickly.

'Do I need to pay you?'

'Fucking hell, no, son. It's a betting game. Not Thursday, you're an unknown quantity. But then, after, based on that.'

They shook hands, Brendan's grip more powerful than any Sherlock had encountered since his Serbian torture. He swallowed hard to expel the memory of that particularly delightful chapter of his life; and left the gym, unofficial then official zones, emerging blinking out into the noisy street once more. 

...................

He thought about returning to Baker Street. John might be there? Or to the labs. But his hands were itching, and his mind was buzzing; and there would be no relief to come for him from a fight today. It was drugs or that other thing - Mycroft's second address card was now burning a hole into his pocket, inviting him into the unknown once again. Mycroft must have arranged the seconding of his nomination by now, he thought? 

He resolved to test that theory. 

Hanging the expense this time, he called a mini cab firm and agreed a price for the trip back into town, to Piccadilly. To Tintern Mansions.


	5. The Tintern Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note : contains mentions of historic child sex abuse

As he exited the cab on Piccadilly, Sherlock glanced at the Royal Academy, noting with passing interest the 'Early Manet' exhibition on the hoarding alongside the entrance. The posters showed still-life paintings of fruit, with Impressionistic brush strokes, but much darker, swarthier backgrounds. He liked them a lot. More than some of the other, later Impressionist works. Those lilies, honestly? All pastels and pinky purples. Clever technique but he wouldn't hang those in the toilet of 221C, although it would annoy the marmosets, if only they'd still been there, and not on a council landfill tip in Essex, having been evicted by Project Nanny Flat. 

Actually, if he was honest what he really liked were early Japanese wood cuts. But they were frighteningly expensive and the ones he'd collected, bought with some of his inheritance from Grand-mere, he'd mainly sold for drugs long ago. Just had a few left now, and maybe he'd sell them too, to buy something important for John? 

John, John, ......who he knew in his heart, would not be happy if he knew where Sherlock was right now? Or, he thought, turning away from thoughts of John, maybe he'd just sell them for drugs, to keep Mycroft off his trail, if this thing, this place, didn't work? He could feed his habit for a long while if he found the right art dealer for the woodcuts, and they might pay him in cash if he flirted with the right people.

He was rambling again.....

.....................

A few yards further on, Sherlock was faced by a liveried doorman at a grand entrance to a building. There was no sign. He walked past, but the buildings further up were clearly residential. This must have been it, then. 

Walking back, he stopped when he reached the doorman. Handed him Mycroft's letter of introduction. The man took it, tipping his top hat. He did not open it, but simply said 'One moment, sir', and disappeared indoors at a stately pace.

Sherlock only stood there for around a minute before the doorman reappeared. 

'Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. A real pleasure to have you here, sir. Won't you please come this way?'

Sherlock felt slightly - well, more like very - like the fly wandering into the spider's web. He was on edge, his fingers twitching and his mind flashing from one thing to the next, the desire for the relief of cocaine ruining his equilibrium. He wished he'd at least had a sparring session before leaving Catford. Too late now.

He was shown down a long corridor. He really wasn't dressed for these surroundings, still in the running gear, Belstaff over his arm? But then that might perhaps be useful. He wasn't at all keen to be recognised if this place was anything of what he thought it might be.....

The doorman now handed him over to a woman, dressed extremely smartly. Her voice, when she spoke, was somewhere far to the lead-crystal side of cut glass. A slight European accenting added to the RP English.

'Mr Holmes.' A statement, not a question. Interesting. 

My name is Sasha Orlov. Your brother has provided us with a few details about possible strategies, but I do need to understand something of the background and your history. He was either not able, or not willing, to disclose anything at all about that, save to say that you were confronting some issues relating to past trauma. 

She took his hand. 

'You don't need to tell me everything, not even most things, but I do need to ask some questions. Will that be possible?'

Sherlock frowned. He had hoped to just wing this with a list of things he knew would help him. 

'You can try.'

'Very well. Sit.'

Another command. Presumably that part of the strategy came from Mycroft....

Sherlock sat. Breathed. Before his therapy sessions he would never have been able to even attempt this. Breathe. Slowly. Breathe. His palms started to sweat.

Sasha rattled quickly through her questions. Sherlock cleared his mind and answered automatically, before he could allow himself to think about the subject matter.

'Have all your physical experiences been positive ones?'  
'No.'  
'Have any of them involved the use of unwanted force?'  
'Yes.'  
'Have any of them included rape?'  
'Yes.'  
'How old were you when these events happened?'  
'Eleven.'  
[a pause]  
'Have all your other experiences been consensual?'  
'No.'  
'Did they also involve rape?'  
'No, I was directly exchanging sexual services for cocaine, amphetamines, and later, heroin and morphine'  
[a further pause]  
'Are you in a current relationship?'  
'Yes.'  
'With a man or a woman?'  
'A man.'  
'Is this relationship consensual and supportive?'  
'Yes, it is.'  
'Are you here because your partner will not fulfil your requirements regarding physical avenues or sensory aspects?'  
'Not exactly. He did perform these, but an episode of PTSD partly associated with a session means it is no longer safe for him to continue. We agreed on that.'  
'Is he aware that you are here today?'  
[a pause]  
'No.'  
'Is he aware this is something they you might contemplate?'  
'Yes. But I think he will still feel angry and betrayed.'

Sherlock came to a halt. Struggling to continue. He took a deep breath and, adopting that dull neutral voice so feared by John, denoting as it did the description of horrible events or the rejection of emotion, he started to speak.

'We are expecting a child via a surrogate mother in seven weeks, at the behest of my blasted family, for whom tradition and continuity are valued above the individual. I suppose I should champion this given my fascination with bees, but I feel like a drone in their hive. I am struggling to cope with the prospect of the baby, and am worried I will turn back to drugs. Positive activity like sports is not proving enough. I have previously attempted suicide and am a former drug addict and technically I suppose also a former prostitute. I am in therapy, but in the short term this is causing me more distress than I can handle. I can find no peace. I can share nothing of this with my partner. He is a good and kind man and I love him and he cannot solve these problems for me. He is often absent due to his military work, and when he is away I do not eat. My work involves highly confidential scientific research. I cannot speak of that either. I do not think I can continue like this. I do not think I can continue. I do not think I can....'

Sherlock came to a stop. He had nothing else to add. His brain had run out of places to go. Which was why, after all, he needed this. Why he was here.

Sasha came and crouched in front of him. 

'I think we start now. Is that what you want?'

Sherlock nodded wearily: his head down. He felt suddenly tired and heavy, like he'd had all the life force drained from him. He wasn't drugged, or physically tired in theory, it was just the effort of talking about this subject. It sucked all his energy out of him. 

Sasha led him through to a dressing room, where she left him, and asked him to undress to his underwear and then wait. He did so, and then sat. 

After a few minutes, a door at the end opened, and a man walked into the room. 

'Good afternoon, Brother Mine.'

................

Sherlock's mouth dropped open. He stared.

Mycroft walked over to Sherlock and crossed his arms. He, of course, was fully dressed. He looked very out of place. And perspiring. Not nervous, just warm, the temperature was quite tropical in here.

'Mycroft, what the hell are you doing here? You should be in Venezuela, according to your calendar.'

'Yes, that's right. According to my private calendar, Sherlock. The calendar you hacked into. The calendar you hacked into on my supposedly highly secure government laptop. That calendar.'

Sherlock scowled.

'You should thank me, brother. Employ me as a White Hat, finding holes in your systems, instead of exiling me to wafting litmus paper in the Home Counties, and not being allowed to blow up anything despite dealing with tons of high explosives. But you're not answering the question of what you are doing here? I know you're a member, but....'

'Sherlock. Relax. Calm yourself.

I know what you are here for is not primarily sexual. You require a combination of sensory deprivation and physical punishment in order to enable you to white-out the things in your head which are causing you the most distress, at least on a regular basis, for a short period. 

The club committee discussed your case. 

And it was recommended that I take this duty on.'

Sherlock blinked. Shook his head.

'You, Mycroft? But - ahhhh ....you know, this is really, really, a thing for a stranger to do?' 

'Normally, yes. However given the sensitivities of our work, and your profile, and your.......history, it was not thought wise to involve an outside party in this activity from a security standpoint.'

'So my own brother is going to flog me naked, because the British Government don't want it to get out that your little brother is a junkie rape victim who can't handle being a father?' Sherlock's voice was rising in volume now.

'That's about it, Sherlock.' Mycroft was as cool as a glacier. 

'Can I think about this please?'

'Of course. There's no pressure. There are other establishments, other doms; we can probably find one that is sufficiently discreet, though it will likely take some time. But there's no compulsion at all. Except that it will not be tolerated if you reject this completely and as a result return to drug taking.'

Sherlock sat there, numbed by confusion and indecision. 

He turned to Mycroft, looking him straight in the eye. 

'This isn't primarily about sexual gratification on my part, Mycroft. 

But, Mycroft, what about you?'

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, his eyes narrowing almost to slits as realisation and horror dawned. 

'John told you. He said, he promised....'

'John didn't tell me. Nothing. I told him, Mycroft. Told him that I knew. That I have always known?'

'Sherlock, you know it was nothing conscious, ever, that I would, could, would never ever....I would never lay a......that's not why I'm offering to do this? You have to believe that. Please believe it...'

'I know that Myc. It's fine. I know it's not. And I'm sure this would be fine. 

But.....I'm not going to do it. Not because of that - you - it. But because of John. He was unhappy, because of knowing about the idea of you even organising these sessions. There is no way I can explain this development to him. You being 'involved' in a way that would not leave him deeply betrayed? I trust you Mycroft, and I'm sure you're a great dom. But John trusts me. And I just can't do this.'

With that Sherlock turned away and started to dress. 

Mycroft wondered what Sherlock thought John's reaction was going to be anyway, whether it was Mycroft wielding the crop or the whip or a stranger? But he took the point.

He called Sherlock back. Hesitated, and then spoke.

'Sherlock. I have a contact. Someone who can perhaps help. They don't work, but they might agree to help you. As a favour to me.'

Sherlock looked troubled.

'How do you know this person?'

'We....were....close. Very close. Once. But work, well, work called, and as you know, Sherlock, I choose that path, over that of sentiment. There also were conflicts of interest that made our relationship impossible to continue alongside my work. Political incompatibilities relating to his homeland and mine, but also some in our relationship, in respect of the power dynamics. Two doms does not usually a happy long-term combination make, in the end. 

However we have remained close friends.'

'Are they, this person, in London?'

'They are. Pall Mall. Walkable from here, approximately three minutes.'

'Why would they help me?' 

'Out of loyalty to me, Sherlock. Believe it or not, I too can inspire that in others? I may not have your rudeness and your curls, but I possess other beguiling qualities, apparently. An ability to stay off hard drugs and to keep my knickers on until an appropriate occasion, being just two of those, little brother.'

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. First the boxing, now this. When would he get any actual relief? How long would this take to set up?

Mycroft seemed to read him like a book. Of course he did. He was Mycroft.

'Sherlock, I know your strings are pulled taut. I will contact him now. Please don't leave the building for any reason at all, or my car will be forced to follow you as we have done all the way from that ghastly pit. Catford, was it? 

Never go south of the River, Sherlock, unless it is for specific pleasures such as those offered by Mr Flanagan. The Stuarts knew it, as did the Georgians : Ale houses, whore houses, theatres (and pleasure gardens to enjoy the fruits of all three) , plus the tanneries and slums and night soil depots to service the City north of the river, that's all South of the river was good for.'

If you were going to do something, thought Sherlock (in this case, postcode snobbery), you may as well do it thoroughly, and dismiss the entirety of the south side of the river....

Mycroft imperiously signalled Sherlock to return to the reception lobby. He sat there, leafing through a thick glossy magazine, which seemed to consist entirely of adverts for super yachts, crewed by impossibly attractive and immaculately if skimpily attired young men with bronzed bodies and honed muscles, for about five minutes until Mycroft returned. Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock, and he reluctantly put down the magazine. Not quite his scene compared with "Military Muscle", but not altogether unappealing.

Mycroft smiled the smile of a man who has just enjoyed a pleasure denied to him for too long. Clearly speaking to whoever this person was, had brought back some very happy memories.

'He will help. And he is in town. At home. We can go there now. I do wish you were dressed a little more satisfactorily, Sherlock.'

Sherlock smiled slightly.

'So.......this is a he. Interesting. Your reticence about your private life has been pretty much total, Mycroft. Yet, you choose now to allow me to know your sexuality in one gesture? This baby really is important to you.'

'This baby is important above all things, Sherlock, to me, as it should be to you.'

Mycroft suddenly switched to sounding annoyed and tired.

'You know little or nothing about me, Sherlock, even with this small grain of knowledge. Do not presume. Let us just say that, like your dear Doctor Watson, my tastes are a little more interestingly 'varied' than your own? So please do not make erroneous assumptions, based on your own dull and vulgar single-track mind. There is more to a sex life than the erect male member, dear brother.'

Sherlock, disagreeing with that one, but duly chastened, took another tack.

Why do I need to be well dressed? He's only going to tell me to take the clothes off again, I assume? Anyway, what's his name, this "old friend"? 

His name, Sherlock, is Prince Wasim. A minor member of the royal family in a state I prefer not to specify. There's a longer version of his name, a much longer one, but that's the short version, and the easier to pronounce. And it should suffice for your....needs.

He finds life in London to be.....well, shall we say, more conducive and sympathetic, than at home? His lifestyle and the disapproval it attracts is the reason he lives in a comfortable flat in Pall Mall, not a plutocratic palace like his brothers and cousins. We were contemporaries, and latterly, lovers, at Eton. 

Come, we should not keep him waiting. He's rarely kept waiting for anything, by anyone.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mention of Sherlock's Japanese woodcut collection is inspired by Freddie Mercury of Queen, who, I read, had a large and valuable collection of these. I think Sherlock and Freddie would have got along very well, and it's in tribute to Freddie that I 'bequeathed' his collection to Sherlock in this fic :-)


	6. Pall Mall, and an Old Friend

Sherlock thought Mycroft might simply leave him, once they had trotted, long legged in the Holmes fashion, back out onto Piccadilly Circus and then up Pall Mall and, at length, into the extremely expensive but discreet looking red brick Victorian building. It was hard to describe how a building could look discreet, but this one managed it stylishly. Modest doorway, doorman tucked away inside, using a camera to alert him to callers, no indications as to numbers of flats or nameplates. The perfect environment for a single man to lead a discreet lifestyle. 

But after they had been buzzed into the entrance hall, and again into the lifts, a period piece and part of the building's "listing" by English Heritage and therefore couldn't be removed or altered, Mycroft stepped into the lift after Sherlock. He pulled the concertina metal diamond grid door jerkily across, and pressed the button for the fourth floor. The apartment took up most of the top half of the building, the top three floors. Sherlock wondered idly if he should also apply to have Mycroft listed by English Heritage? Like Quentin Crisp, one of the 'Stately Homos of England'? 

Mycroft mistook the twist of his lips for anxiety. And to be fair, Sherlock was indeed anxious, but this wasn't actually his anxious look.

'Dont look so worried, Sherlock. I am merely here to effect introductions, John need not fear me getting 'involved'. Not now Wasim has so generously agreed to assist. 

I shall melt away like butter on a crumpet.'

Just as he spoke, the lift juddered and stopped with a jolt, and the two Holmes men stepped out into the main lobby of the apartment, which appeared to be all chandeliers and white and gold, with a hefty dollop of Versailles mirrorage (just in case the rest of it was a bit too subtle). 

A uniformed maid met them, welcoming them in charmingly accented English, and took them through double doors to one of the large and opulent reception rooms. She announced their arrival, bowed, (Bowed? thought Sherlock, dear Lord), and left.

Here we are then, thought Sherlock. I get to meet the Old Flame. This was a day he never thought he'd see.

Then his thoughts were stopped.

Turning back to greet them, from the fireplace at which he stood, was one of the most beautiful men Sherlock had actually ever seen in his life. Liquid brown eyes, dark lashes and brows, lips so perfect they might, despite the horrible old cliche, have been fashioned by the gods. He must have been the same age as Mycroft, or near it, but looked barely older than his twenties. Sherlock wondered if his eyes were enhanced by kohl or eyeliner, or if they could actually be real and unadorned and look like That. No one really had any right to look like that, at all, actually. He wasn't ashamed to say he was transfixed, standing behind and slightly to one side of Mycroft enabling him to stare freely. He was aware that a Sherlock stare was pretty stare-y, but carried on anyway.

The stranger came forward.

'Mycroft. It has been far too long. How are you, my fearless warrior of words? You look so very well. You have been exercising, too, I can see.'

A small snort erupted from directly behind Mycroft and was rewarded with a patent leather foot moving back and deliberately crushing a large trainer-clad one. 

Sherlock squeaked. That hurt.

'Wasim. You are much too kind, as always. On the contrary, I fear the life of a desk warrior does not admit of such compliments. Though I take your gentle words with gratitude. It is tremendously generous of you to agree to see us, and at such unforgivably short notice. 

You are quite right. It has been very, very much too long since we last met.

However......please may I introduce to you, with your permission, my younger brother, Sherlock? He has more of a taste for legwork and for the......adventurous life. A predilection which can sometimes, in fact often, lead him into trouble. You may have read of some of his....exploits. Quite the celebrity. At least until recently. In more recent months he has been assisting in some...government scientific work of great value.

As I explained on the telephone, Wasim, he is currently at an impasse. Our family is very concerned that he remains......resolute and balanced. His first child, our family's only heir, his son, is expected in a matter of weeks. You understand, Wasim. This is all that matters? All that is important?'

Sherlock was staring at Mycroft's back. Son. Mycroft had said son. 

No one knew the sex of the unborn child. No one. Sherlock had ruled it a no-go area. Yet, it seemed, Mycroft did? The baby, his child, was a son? It could have been a slip of the tongue, if this was anyone but Mycroft. But Mycroft simply didn't make slips of the tongue. Never. Ever.

Sherlock struggled to concentrate on his surroundings. The voices began to sound muffled and far away. Like the time he tried to be a submarine in the bath, and Nanny found him almost drowned and begged him not to tell anyone she had left him unattended. It sounded the same now, just so many distant foghorns in the mist.

Wasim looked past Mycroft now, at Sherlock, who was mumbling to himself and staring at the highly-polished marble floor, inlaid with geometric shapes. Swaying slightly.

'Your brother, I think, was not aware, Mycroft, of the sex of the child? You had not told him. It was not perhaps, so kind of you, to reveal it in this manner.'

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like being the subject of what, for Wasim, was a strict telling off. But he didn't want to admit that he'd mentioned it because he knew it would add weight to the mutually understood importance of this child. Not that it made a difference inheritance wise, since Sherlock was unlikely to father further children and Mycroft was unable to. A girl would inherit the family property and wealth just the same. Although if they married, the name might disappear, if a girl didn't choose to retain it if she married?

Wasim was not looking at Mycroft at all, now, however, but at Sherlock. Regarding him with concern, in the way a bird surveys its surroundings. Quick glances, but seeing all.

'An interesting name, this. From the old English, "scir-lock", Bright haired. Yet your hair, Mr Sherlock Holmes, it is not bright. It is dark. Like mine. This is a mystery. I like mysteries very much. 

Sherlock was defensive. 'It is just a middle name.'

'But you do not use your first name? The name your father bestowed upon you?'

'No. No, I do not.'

Sherlock did not elaborate further.

'Does he not feel this a dishonour to him?'

Wasim was genuinely curious, and fascinated by this slender puzzle-box of a man.

Sherlock approached the prince, and stormy sea green eyes met dark brown liquid pools. He was slightly taller than Wasim, and he stood very close. It was a little like his posture when sneering at Kitty the journalist in the court toilets at Moriarty's trial, but without the malice. This was more intimate, more charged in a different way.

'I have dishonoured my father in every imaginable way, Prince Wasim. It is unlikely my choice of name adds much to the shame.'

Mycroft was looking between the two of them, the verbal sparring starting more quickly than he had anticipated. He knew who would have the best of it. And he knew that person would be Sherlock. 

Equally, he could see that Wasim was enraptured by his brother. It couldn't be a full relationship, not with John's existence, and Sherlock's work with Six, but he fancied both men would enjoy this brief reverie.

Mycroft decided that now was the time for him to make his excuses and leave. He declined Wasim's offer of tea, and turned to Sherlock.

'Let him help you. He is the best of men. And the soul of discretion. He needs to be. His life depends on it. You may trust him absolutely.'

Sherlock nodded, and then, bidding farewell to Wasim with many cheek kisses and complimenting from the prince, and one last regarding look at Sherlock, Mycroft was gone, into the cramped ancient mahogany and iron lift, down back out to Pall Mall and the noise and chaos of Real Life.

As he descended, he wondered whether he was jealous? Normal people would be. He thought not. It was primarily his own decision to distance himself from relationships, including that with Wasim. And he needed someone he would trust with impunity to take care of his brother in this most fraught time and this most personal way. 

Much as Mycroft cared about Wasim, and what was between them, it all paled in comparison to his complicated love for his brother. 

..............

Left alone with this stranger in the cocoon of opulence and expectation, there was a silence for a few moments between Sherlock and this trusted ex-lover of his brother. For ordinary people, it might be an awkward pause, but neither of these two men would imagine a concept of awkwardness in unfamiliar surroundings, with unfamiliar people. Both donned the mask of arrogance and entitlement, and sailed through such situations. 

So there was silence, but it was just that. Neutral. A space for one man to consider the other. Calculate their next move, and organise their thoughts. 

Wasim, as the host, spoke first. 

He knew what he was doing. It had to be deliberate.

'Sherrrrloccckk.'

His pronunciation of the name deliberately rolled over his tongue, and Sherlock couldn't help a small shiver starting to run down from the hairs on the back of his neck all the way down to the base of his spine.

Damn and blast Mycroft, he thought. Why could his friend not be ordinary. Out of the frying pan, and into the fire....

'Come and sit with me a moment.'

This was not expressed as a request, but as a gentle, but firm, order.

And with that Wasim placed a large ornate cream velvet cushion on the floor at the base of the sofa where he sat, and patted it. Not at his level. Below him.

'Sit now.'

Sherlock found his limbs moving and his brain disengaging. He sank down on the cushion, kneeling, facing Wasim. The prince, dressed traditionally, placed his hand on Sherlock's head. The warmth of his touch flooded through and Sherlock felt a calm descend. Then fingers started to work through his curls of hair, massaging each lock, then his scalp, gently but firmly, always with that heat.

Sherlock's head bowed down, and his arms were by his side, palms flat on his thighs. He trembled. Breathing shallow, and fast.

This went on for some minutes.

'Come', Wasim said at length. 

'Your brother told me the things that you need. I understand you have a man, a good man, a loving man. But a man who cannot give you this, for both your sakes. 

So I hope that this helps you, and him. You may tell him if you wish. I will even meet with him if you wish. But I would prefer that you call me Abdullah if you do bring him to meet me, as I need to maintain some anonymity and I understand he undertakes missions in my own part of the world. If he were captured and interrogated it could place me in great danger, his knowing my true identity. Him also.'

Sherlock merely nodded.

Wasim led Sherlock slowly into the bedroom, locked the door, giving Sherlock the key; and opened a large chest at the end of the huge bed. Sherlock would have done his usual gazing around, investigating, deducing. But that was difficult when your eyes were fixed on the floor in mute submission, your throat was dry as sandpaper, and you could barely breathe, let alone swallow. Let alone take any real notice of your surroundings.

'Take off your clothes. Lie on the bed. Face down.'

The order entered his brain like dye soaking through water, and Sherlock did so without hesitation, folding his clothes carefully.

Wasim took some smooth ropes, and within a few minutes Sherlock was secured to each corner of the bed. No blindfold or ear plugs (today at least), and no attempt was made to gag him. Sherlock assumed Mycroft had told Wasim about that last one.

Wasim took from the trunk a flat paddle. 

'You are a beautiful man, but a troubled one. Mycroft tells me your man, he has the great suffering from the war, and he does not trust himself with these things. So. I do this for him, and for you. 

Please, tell me your safewords.' 

'Just red, orange, green.'

'Thank you. Now we begin. Please count with me. We will start with six only.'

With that he raised the paddle and brought it smartly down on Sherlock's buttocks. The sting made Sherlock tense, and it was a full second before he remembered about the counting. 

'One'

Each blow that rained down was slightly heavier than the last, but none was unbearable, and there were just six, all of which he counted out loud. Sherlock felt invigorated, though not able to shed his troubles, when they were over. 

He breathed out hard, knowing there was more to come.

He thought Wasim's next move might help more. The prince came into view holding something. Sherlock nodded at it. It was a riding crop, but a very beautiful one, inlaid with silver work, chased into hunting scenes. Sherlock had little chance to admire its beauty in his single glance over his shoulder, before Wasim said 'Ten. Count.', and the blows began to rain down. 

After the crop there was a bullwhip. Again Sherlock was shown it, and again he nodded. He welcomed the step up. This was more what he had come for. This would leave lacerations. The whip began its work. At that point, the pain focusing his mind to a point beyond thought, Sherlock began to float, starting to creep towards the door in his brain that took him to the white space, the empty free space, where he would just float, and relax. 

The flogger that was brought out afterwards, took him the rest of the way. The worries were gone. His brain no longer raced. Now there was calm, focus, an empty Mind Palace cellar, diving through water, leaping through air.

'How do you feel now, Sherlock?' Wasim was looking at his pupils and checking his breathing, pulse and heartrate. Breathing and pupils were fine, and the other two were very fast, but not dangerously so. Not unexpected.

He was unable to speak. His tongue felt thick and incapable of coherent speech. He was in a cotton wool world of subspace, and everything was white and clean, even him. He felt as high as a kite. He was aroused, but not aware of it enough to come to any physical conclusion. The release was entirely mental.

Wasim gently got onto the bed, and quickly untied all the binds, dragging Sherlock up so that his back was resting against Wasim's smooth (possibly waxed?) chest. Wasim now gently stroked his hair and his arms and his neck with soft brushing arcs, whispering to him in Arabic, soft words, words of poets, until at length, Sherlock sighed and drifted into blissful and quiet sleep.

It was around twenty minutes later when Sherlock woke, feeling revived and happy. Happier than he had felt for weeks. He stirred, and mumbled something about being sorry about the milk, and Wasim wriggled out from behind him. 

'You are awake, my gazelle? 

We shall have tea, sweet mint tea, there is nothing better, and you shall tell me of your man, your John, and his qualities. And I shall tell you of my other home, and of my brothers and sisters.'

.................

When Sherlock left Pall Mall, some forty minutes later, he texted Mycroft.

'For once you had a good idea. He's quite heaven. Have another cake. In fact, have two.'

The reply flashed back

'Are you going to tell John?'

The answer took some time to come through.

'Not yet.'

'Ahhh', thought Mycroft, placing the phone against his chin and tapping it thoughtfully. 'I wonder if this was wise, after all? He might have been safer with me, though I understand his reluctance there.....but John is going to notice; and at least John has no choice but to listen to me. I don't know what he's thinking. He should be upfront, much less suspicious. He is risking that doctor fellow doing something silly, I fear.'

Then he rang for the tea trolley, deciding that donating the delights of Wasim to his brother, even in a noble cause, definitely deserved the reward of at the very least a macaroon, and possibly even a slice of that raspberry Pavlova he saw Jenner with earlier? If the early crowd hadn't necked the lot already.........

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasim is an Arabic name, meaning 'Handsome'
> 
> I have a friend who lived in a flat in Pall Mall. The lifts are accurate. The flat was not so opulent as Wasim's, and was on a single floor. (Still worth a gazillion pounds though). (Estate agents note : Gazelles not included)


	7. A Prince's memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Smut alert :-)........ and it's not John or Sherlock....:-DD

"Such is the passion for love that  
has twisted its way beneath my heart strings   
And closed deep mist across my eyes  
Stealing the soft heart from inside my body."

ARCHILOCHUS of PAROS  
680-c.645 BC

 

*********************

Sherlock didn't have to explain anything to John, after all, when he finally reached Baker Street. The flat was quiet and empty, again, smelling of tea and Pledge and dusting. Mrs Hudson had taken up cleaning again, once she knew about the baby coming and that the more extreme 'fixtures' had been removed by Mycroft's men, though she didn't mention those. 

Between her efforts and John's, the place had never been so pristine. 'It's important, Sherlock. It's important. Babies have very fragile immune systems. They need....'.........Sherlock shut the door on her. He didn't know what babies needed. Didn't want to think about babies. Not his area. People didn't take the hint.

John. Ah. Hmmm. Yes. He switched his phone back on, realising that it had been off pretty much the whole day, and John had probably tried to call. 

There was, indeed, a short, terse message from John. He sounded frustrated and possibly quite verging on very annoyed.

"Sherlock, John. Listen. I can't get hold of you, not at all, all day. I even called Mycroft, God help me, who claimed he didn't know where you were, though I'm sure he wasn't telling me the truth, the slippery bastard; and then I called the labs, and they said you hadn't been in all day, and Molly and Greg haven't seen you either?

Anyway, what I wanted to tell you, was that I've been called in on an extraction op so I'm heading out to Northolt now. It's (rustle as paperwork was juggled, while sleeve pushed up to consult watch), about 3pm now. I won't be able to call you, so I guess I'm saying 'bye for now. It's likely to be three days, they say: not more. Wish I could have spoken to you, so I knew you were ok. Love you. You've got some explaining to do when I get back. Love you. Love you."

That was the end of the message. Love mixed with worry mixed with annoyance mixed with love. John Watson summed up in a few words.

Sherlock turned the phone over and over in his hand. 

The guilt at his spending the morning arranging a boxing bout (about which John knew nothing); and the much bigger guilt at spending the afternoon being flogged by an Arab Prince, (about which John also knew nothing, and......actually that second one really didn't sound terribly good when he said it aloud in his mind...?) was washing through him. 

He was tired after his day's activities, and lay on the sofa in the living room. Fingers steepled, he retreated to his Mind Palace to organise his thoughts. He wasn't able to stay in the Palace for long. A vision of a footman appeared, to remind Sir that his flogged arse really wasn't conducive to Mind Palacing or, indeed, to lying on his back at all. He grumbled loudly, despite there being no-one to listen, and moved to the bedroom, applying some more cream to his weals and cuts and then settling down on his front. He still felt languorous and relaxed from his time in Pall Mall, and sleep crept over him like a silken sheet of bliss. 

When he woke, it was dark, and he realised he'd been asleep for some hours. He dressed in his pyjamas and silk dressing gown and then wandered the flat, disconsolately, missing John and feeling hollow. He opened the snack food cupboard, and then wandered some more, nibbling raisins feebly.

The flat felt empty and depressed without John here. But at least he wouldn't have to explain the cuts and weals today.

Instead, he finished his tiny toy packet of raisins, and went and wrapped himself in Johns cream cable knit sweater. John didn't wear that one too often, but it was the one that retained John-smell the longest and the best, this conclusion being drawn after much analysis and experiment. The scent was instantly calming and grounding, like a drink of hot chocolate spreading through his veins. Only John could do this, had ever been able to do this. Even now.

....................

Sherlock returned to the opulent cavern of relief in Pall Mall twice more before John returned. Which was very helpful in keeping him stable, but meant he was going to have some explaining to do, after all; as the marks were fresh and open. He couldn't stay away from the addictive high and glorious space in his head that Wasim's hand and instruments of controlled physical punishment provided. 

It was this or the drugs. So he chose this. The lesser of two evils, he told himself.

And while it was very clear that both men found the other immensely attractive, and were very aroused by the activities, Wasim had been the model of decorum, and not once tried to press the issue, and ask for anything more. Or take anything more, since generally Sherlock was bound, sometimes also blindfolded and ear plugged and completely at Wasim's mercy. He might not have been gagged, but Sherlock very much suspected that the staff depended for their UK visas on continuing to work for the Prince, and that they would 'not hear' anything that went on.

The only reference Wasim had made to the obvious elephant in the room, was after the second time, when Sherlock was lying back against his chest, Wasim administering aftercare of kisses and strokes and whispers. Wasim's hand went no lower than Sherlock's waist, but he kissed the side of his shoulder; and he said:

'This is not comfortable for you. I am happy to leave the room, in order that you may relieve the pressure. You may think of your man, your strong, resolute, brave John.'

Sherlock looked up so he could see Wasim's face gazing down at him. Fuck this man was exquisite. He smiled at him, and shook his head. 

'No. It would not feel right to do that. Only with John, only at home. But you Wasim, you should not also face this frustration. Please, as soon as you are satisfied that I am not going to drop away into a distressed state, please, do this yourself.

Wasim sighed and stroked Sherlock's curls thoughtfully. 

'Your John, this brave soldier and doctor. He is a man blessed with many things. But the greatest of these blessings, is the love of his gazelle.'

As Wasim got up from the bed, his long limbs graceful and elegant, Sherlock replied.

'John doesn't call me a gazelle, though I like it when you call me that. He calls me a Phoenix, because I died and came back to him. And because I can be quite fiery, I expect.'

Wasim nodded. 

'This is a good description. He knows his man well. But I shall continue to call you this. Gentle, swift and beautiful, but also fragile and hunted by predators. I shall protect my gazelle. And his lover, should I have to. If it is within my power to do so.' 

With that, the prince swept from the room to one of the other bedrooms in this enormous residence, leaving Sherlock to curl into the pillows and breathe in the scented sheets. Wasim sounded a bit pompous, (thought the man who really ought to know a good pompousness when he met it), but he was so utterly serious and sincere; and so instead of being risible, the effect was nothing less than utterly charming and beguiling.

Wasim, unaware of the critique and conclusion, though well used to his lovers being beguiled, moved to another bedroom; to lie on another bed, alone, and to stroke himself to climax thinking of Sherlock's long, slim body, his eyes of the ocean and his wild moods and black curls. As he lay, panting and spent, he pictured Sherlock in some of his own robes, those pale eyes flashing. He could take him home; they could ride in the desert at sunrise, and go hunting with falcons in the mountains.

But of course this was rubbish. They could do none of this, in reality. 

His family barely tolerated his lifestyle when he was in London. He was, to all intents and purposes, an exile, until or unless he chose to marry, and to live the life he was expected to, and that would never happen. He could choose to deny many things for the sake of duty and family, but he couldn't change his whole identity and live a lie. So, London was where he lived, and London it might be, where he died, away from his homeland and his family and his culture.

And Sherlock, well. Sherlock belonged to another, belonged in a sense much deeper than it sounded, a way that two souls could be so tightly bound that one could not function, exist, breathe without the other.

Which was unfortunate for Wasim himself; but, the perceptive Wasim thought, could be more risky for Sherlock himself. John and Sherlock's lives were not without external dangers, but he felt these internal relationship issues to be more risky still, and he shivered when he considered the impact of the loss of one to the other.

.................

Wasim was, he had to admit, becoming fascinated by this John, who so absorbed Sherlock's love. 

"John Watson". Such a British name, short and solid. It sounded dull. The photograph Sherlock had showed him when he asked to see this John, had surprised Wasim greatly. He had expected to see perhaps a tall, conventionally handsome man, perhaps an artist or sculptor. Or perhaps a musician or dancer.

Instead the photograph he gazed at gave the impression of an ordinary middle aged man, with fair hair, now greying, and a short, stocky physique. Pleasant, and affable looking, but nothing to write home about. It was only the eyes that caught the attention. Navy blue, they looked like the North Sea to Sherlock's Adriatic. They were deep, and showed both steely resolution and a good deal of pain, storms weathered and some storms still raging. 

This man was surely a rock, an anchor point in angry seas. Perhaps he had saved Sherlock, perhaps this was where the origin of this love lay? But there was some of the storm in those eyes remaining. Pools of boiling water, angry and resentful.

Wasim could see why Sherlock would fall for the eyes. But the rest? 

He yearned to meet this John Watson in person. He knew he himself was considered a very beautiful man, which clearly John, though good looking in that British stoic solid way, was not. So he wanted to see them together, Sherlock and his John, to understand the connection between them better. 

He had even tried saying John's name quietly to Sherlock, just once, and the drowsy half asleep man had instantly become alert and querying where the man was, his face all at once a stunning portrait of mixed up love, desire and pain.

He rose from the bed, and stood under the shower, thanking Mycroft silently for having introduced him to his gazelle, even while he grew sad at the limited nature of their connection. He hoped he was wrong about the clouds on the horizon.

..............

He thought though, now, too, as he showered, of Mycroft, and of their own relationship and the sharp pain of separation. 

They had met at the beginning of the sixth form at Eton, when Wasim was sent from his own country to gain a few years of a top class English eduction. Alone and isolated, with good but heavily accented English, he struggled to make friends in a school where everyone's Mummy and Daddy seemed to know everyone else's, and where friendships had naturally enough largely been forged years back in the lower forms.

At first, Wasim hadn't really noticed the tall, loping gaited boy with auburn hair who was always working in the library, or talking with the beaks, and who rarely seemed to go home or mix with the other boys. 

It was only when they were paired up for the compulsory ballroom lessons that his gaze had started to linger. Mycroft was an amazing dancer, and Wasim, though not previously acquainted with ballroom, had natural grace and poise. They flew round the room, leaving the other boys tripping over their own feet. It didn't enhance either of their popularity with their peers, but that was nothing new for Mycroft, and Wasim was used to a world where the opinions of others mattered little.

After their dance lessons, in the changing rooms, Wasim started to watch Mycroft dress and undress, being untroubled by English reserve and modesty about looking at others, fascinated by the slow methodical way that Mycroft would take each item of clothing, and carefully fold and arrange it, so that it was all perfectly square, everything in order. As though the whole world could be ordered by these small routines. 

Watch the way Mycroft's body flexed as he did so, too, long and lean limbed with just a little puppy fat softening the hard angles. The pale skin, scattered with freckles. The red flush that rose on his cheeks the first time he became aware that he was being watched with something other than purely casual glances, by the dark eyes in the corner of the changing rooms. 

The bigger blush, when their eyes met. 

The flash of understanding, of intensity, of recognition, that it was okay: that what you are thinking IS what he is thinking. That this wasn't a silly wind-up, ending with one boy accusing the other of being a "queer" and a "poof" in front of his whole form for a quick laugh, and deep, lasting humiliation. 

That each understood, that for both, the stakes could not be higher.

..........................

It took a long time for anything more to happen. 

Mycroft, perhaps better than anyone, could understand John Watson's endless hesitations about being open about his bisexuality. About the denials, the misleading answers, the vacillation. Evasion honed to the point of untruth.

At least Mycroft hadn't taken until he was forty; he didn't have the external hostility of family to contend with like John, but it hadn't meant it was easy. There was still the disapproval of work peers; the pervading whiff of "sodomy equals treachery" that had permeated Whitehall since the days of the Cambridge spies. Men who were forced to keep more secrets than the ones they were paid to hide, and were automatically suspicious because of it.

Mycroft had also been confused initially, by his reaction to Wasim's gazes, since he knew he also had that reaction when encountering pretty girls from Roedean, or Marlborough, or Cheltenham Ladies? He knew he liked girls. Dark haired, strict girls, with families whose known breeding reached back to the Norman Conquest of 1066, just like the Holmes, and with grannies who were presented to the Queen before that tradition all (sadly in his opinion), stopped.

So what "was" he, then? Why couldn't his body and mind decide if he was gay, or straight? 

He didn't know, but the strength of his reaction to this boy, the violence of it, shocked him to the core.

It wasn't until some years later, well after leaving Oxford, after much further experimentation with both sexes, before he resolved that bisexual really wasn't a stage for him on a road to 'choosing'. It "was what he was" : who he was :his identity. Him.

.......................

They was not helped at all by their age, Mycroft and John alike. Growing up in the peculiar hothouse of the 1980s, when issues like AIDS were poorly understood but policy made regardless; the virus ravaging the gay male community more than anyone; and a time when government still thought it was desirable or possible, to try to 'educate' youngsters away from the perceived perversions of homosexuality. 

Add this to a parental generation drenched in the religion-based moral codes of a grey and dreary post-war upbringing, it was really, really, REALLY, not a great time to be a young boy and to come out and say you were gay or bisexual.

Especially bi, actually. The esprit de corps and defined identity of being "out" as gay meant access to a supportive underground community, should one be lucky enough to live in, or be able to move to, the right areas of the right towns.

Being bi? Not so much. Regarded by some gays and straights alike as being greedy, confused, experimenting, working it out: Some lesbians even shunned bi girls as spreading the disease to an otherwise ultra low risk community. The pie chart of solidarity was now splintered out into 'all except X', and the unspoken mantra of divide and survive.

It was no wonder many bisexual people of that generation didn't ever come out. Mycroft knew some of them of his acquaintance still hadn't. Men and women of forty, with spouses, children, conventional lives which they valued, but with a piece of them missing, something of themselves unexpressed, a regret that grew and ate at them with each year passing.

...................

Women who didn't ever risk that kiss at the sleepover despite the long regarding looks, despite the cuddles in the cold. Women who didn't dare take the hint from another girl that Anna Raeburn or Lisa Stansfield were gorgeously all woman. Didn't go to 'that' bookshop'. Hid the dogeared green Virago paperbacks. Concealed the copy of the Well of Loneliness. Curled up in bed late at night listening to aforesaid womanly Anna, and Dr Philip on LBC, hoping for questions about sex and especially sex of the lesbian variety. 

Men who didn't go to 'that' club or 'that' bar, because it was a small town and there were no secrets. Men who left home with nothing but the clothes they stood up in and the address of the mate of a mate who might have a sofa they could surf either because they had come out to their parents and been rejected, or because they felt they couldn't. Men who travelled to the nearest city so they could buy Gay Times with cash, and then go to the park and read it, without the risk of being seen.

People who settled for less. Didn't confess the complexity of their reality. Knew they were bi, but settled for straight.

....................

Who probably looked at Mycroft with an envy, but also a knowledge that they didn't have the courage to do as he had, or didn't have a family like his, the advantages he had, or didn't have the head start that he had, of the foundation relationship he was just embarking on, as their first love.

And their eyes would lower, and they would turn away and pour another drink, to bitterly toast growing up in the decade when to have asserted their identity would have labelled them as a base destroyer of public morals and a modern "Typhoid Mary".

.........So it really wasn't surprising, really it wasn't, that all those years ago, in that hysterical atmosphere of "gay plagues" and Section 28; that despite their privilege, it took a crisis to precipitate any kind of sexual contact between Mycroft and Wasim, something well beyond the slightly too long, or too low, holds in dances, and the looks that could have been innocent - but were not.

That crisis came though. And they took their chance.

.................

 

It was a hot summer Saturday evening.

The boys were on an exeat weekend, but Mycroft had chosen to stay at school. He didn't fancy going home, as Mummy and Daddy were away on Mummy's lecture tour, and he'd grown tired of Sherlock's tantrums and bad behaviour. Sherlock was nine, nearly ten now and he ought to be more grown up, Mycroft thought, with the arrogance of middle teenage wisdom. He found him a worry, almost continually, and he was tired of it. 

But he also stayed as he knew Wasim would be staying, if he were honest. 

They went out into Windsor in the evening, ending up eating pappardelle and drinking Coke at Carluccios, then wandered slowly back along the high street towards the taxi rank. Their route took them past a couple of the rougher pubs in town, and as they got to the door of one of them, a group of men spilled out. They were very drunk, and arguing with one another, but when they saw the tall thin pale English boy and his slender graceful Arab companion walking along, brushing closely together, their focus switched. The predators spotted their prey.

'Oi.' One of them shouted.

Mycroft ignored it. 

'Oi, mate. I'm talking to you. Look at me. It's not polite to ignore people. Don't they teach you that?'

'Just keep walking', Mycroft muttered, Wasim alongside looking a little nervous now. He pressed closer to Mycroft. They walked a little faster.

They didn't get far up the street, however, before there were running footsteps suddenly behind them, and three men were there, spinning the boys round. 

'Why did you ignore us? Not good enough to speak to, eh? Thought you'd just walk off you toffee-nosed cunt, with your little Paki boyfriend? Couldn't you find an English faggot, you lazy fucker?'

Mycroft looked at them. Cold. Unruffled on the surface.

'I suggest you leave this now, and disappear. And we can forget it. Otherwise I shall call the police.'

'The fuck you will, you arrogant little tosser. Speaking to me like I'm dirt.'

And with that the drinkers laid into the boys, punching and kicking them both. One had a sharp ring, leaving scratches and small cuts. Bystanders stood and looked, some with drinks, but only one woman called the police. 

A police car arrived quickly, but the assailants melted away into the shadows, yelling insults as they ran about the boys' predicted imminent future deaths from AIDs. 

Mycroft turned to Wasim, who was looking frightened more by the prospect of the police than by the assailants. 

'Do you want to pursue this, or just go back to school?'

'School please, Mycroft, my family will not want any publicity.'

So the two boys declined police assistance, and after being checked to make sure their injuries were nothing life threatening, they were allowed to leave. They got a taxi without further trouble and were soon letting themselves into the side gate of the school.

.....................

When they got back inside school, they went straight up to Wasim's deserted dorm. They didn't want anyone to see their humiliation, and Mycroft's dorm still had one other chap sleeping in it. Wasim's was empty, all his dorm-mates gone home. The old school was almost deserted, just a few housemasters and admin staff kicking around, and they were making themselves scarce except at mealtimes, enjoying the peace of it.

'Let me deal with your face', Mycroft offered. Wasim was sporting a bleeding nose, a cut above his eye and some scratches on his neck. 

Wasim agreed, but only if he did the same for Mycroft. So the two sat cross legged on Wasim's bed, armed with cotton wool balls and antiseptic, gently dabbing and wiping at each other's skin, neither admitting to themselves that the enjoyment of touching was much greater than the pain of their minor wounds. It was enjoyably intimate.

After a couple of minutes of concentration on the task, Wasim noticed that Mycroft was trembling. 

'Mycroft, what's wrong?', he asked, concerned. 

'Sorry, it's just......Well.....The words they used. Poisonous words. I don't want you to think. Well. That it's typical. That British people think like that, because most of them, nearly all of them don't, not at all......'

Wasim carefully reached across and wiped away the tear that had gathered at the corner of Mycroft's eye. 

'I don't think that. I know there are always ignorant people everywhere. It's good for me to see something of real life, I think. It can't always be a bubble, because that's what we live in, Myc, an unreal bubble, you know it is. People always want to find someone to tread on, especially if they're trodden on themselves in life. Please, please don't get upset. I'm not upset, look.' 

And he smiled, a wonderful smile, full of happiness and trust. 

And at that moment, Mycroft Holmes fell more than a little bit in love. 

...................

Wasim noticed a previously hidden scratch down Mycroft's neck that went down into where his polo shirt covered.

'Could you take that off'?, he asked. 'So I can treat that wound?'

Mycroft slowly removed his top. Wasim had meant to only treat the wound but as he bent to do so, he looked up, and saw a burning expression on Mycroft's face, then saw the hungry gaze move lower down to his own lips. 

Wasim was a creature of instinct and element, a little like Sherlock in that regard, and he did not stop to process, to over think, to consider. He just acted on impulse. 

He abandoned the scratch he was intending to treat, and curling his hand around the back of Mycroft's neck, brought Mycroft's face down to his own, and fused their lips together in a clashing, burning kiss that was short, and brutal, and left them both breathless and shocked. 

It might have taken a long time for this first touch to happen, but everything happened very, very quickly after that. Partly because these two arrogant boys were competing at being the dominant partner. Partly because they had been dancing around one another, figuratively and literally, for weeks. And partly quite basically, because they were teenage boys, and in love, and their bodies were screaming at them to do something really quite fundamental about it.

It was Mycroft who pushed Wasim down firmly onto the bed and kissed him hard on the lips and the side of his neck and his chest, grazing his nipple with his teeth and breathing in the citrus and musky scent of the boy's body. He decided that it was quite possible that he had actually died and gone to Heaven.

But it was Wasim who then swiftly rolled them over, so that he was now on top, and took firm control and pushed his thigh between Mycroft's which was just uhhhhh; and pressed his weight down, down hard, so that Mycroft groaned at the feeling, the first time ever felt, of an erect prick, long and hard and demanding, grinding against his body, feeling his own cock respond in a wonderfully forthright way, even through their clothing. Hardness meeting hardness. This was something new and incredible. He'd had a girl, several girls, over his sixth form career; and he liked that a lot, warm and gentle and wonderful. Safe harbour. This was different, and raw, and dangerous, and potentially excitingly violent and savage. He didn't think he'd ever want to go gentle with a boy. 

Wasim was talking now, in Arabic, a language Mycroft was learning but only knew the basics of. So he understood the prepositions, and the occasional word, but not the colloquial terms for some of the body parts and many of the verbs. That just made it more erotic, the stuttering words interspersed with gaps, each word understood coinciding with a thrust or grind of their clothed bodies, and unbearable friction.

This boy, this heavenly beautiful boy, was all over him now, desperate and determined; and Mycroft had already surrendered, really; already knew that this would be the first time with a male, and that he didn't care if he was bottom, even though he imagined himself topping; he just wanted this boy, this beautiful boy, on him and in him and he wouldn't be denied now. It wasn't going to be a bit of mutual masturbation or a quick blow job. They were going to do the whole thing. The whole damn bloody wonderful thing.

Wasim was taking what he wanted now, still chanting the unfamiliar words, the incantation of lust, he kicked off his own clothes like a swimmer kicking out on a turn, and then slowed, taking off Mycrofts trousers, socks and pants gently. As soon as they were off, he leapt back onto Mycroft, and rained kisses all down him. To his chest, and his nipples, which he bit hard, almost making Mycroft come there and then, and then kissing down the trail of auburn hair to his cock, which by now was straining and twitching, shining and tight, with precome glistening. 

The beautiful face glanced up at Mycroft and smiled, and then disappeared, black hair flopping down, taking his cock into his mouth and sucking and licking and working it, playing with his balls, then fingers moving back and there was a finger There, where there had never ever been a finger before. And Mycroft was so shocked by the sharp sensation that he gasped and without warning he came, shooting come all over his stomach and chest, leaving him surprised and embarrassed. 

Wasim didn't look shocked at all. He moved back up, but left his exploring finger in place, working Mycroft's entrance, and soon carefully adding another to join the first. He licked all of the come from Mycroft's belly and chest, and then kissed him deeply, so that Mycroft tasted himself and Wasim. He placed a hand over his eyes in disbelief at what was happening. The intensity of the feeling, of the sensation, was overwhelming. Then he dared sneak a glance at Wasim's body and swallowed hard. His golden skin, and his cock, practically vertical, the gold flushed with pink and red and glistening. Not small. At all. My God. What was he about to do?

Now there were three fingers and Mycroft was panting and twisting under the onslaught, and yelled when the fingers brushed his prostate: and Wasim was breathing heavily and getting frantic. His accent was becoming thicker and less intelligible as his state of arousal reached new heights.

'Do you have anything? Lubrication? Anything? Now.'

Mycroft worked out what he was saying, then thought quickly. He didn't have anything, but he was pretty sure Thompson, two beds down, would have: the man never stopped bothering his old chap at nighttime; the others teased him about it endlessly.

Wasim told him to stay there, Mycroft whining pathetically as the probing fingers disappeared, and his love moved off him and out of sight, but Wasim was back almost immediately, eyes gleaming darkly, and what was left of a tube of lube in his hand.

He leaned over Mycroft and kissed him deeply now, tongues and teeth clashing. Dark liquid eyes boring into Mycroft's soul. Then he drew away and gazed into his eyes.

'This is ok, yes? Myc? You want to do this?'

Mycroft blinked at him, searching Wasim's face, looking for any doubt. He found none, and he took his own confidence from that.

'So, so much. Yes. Yes.'

Mycroft dragged Wasim down to him. Wasim reached for the lube and slicked his cock. There were no condoms, they hadn't planned, they should have planned. But Mycroft had used them both his times he'd been with a girl. And Wasim had never been near a girl, let alone a boy. Though Mycroft wondered if he'd had some kind of instruction. He was very assured, very quickly. 

'Which way...?'

'On my front. Don't be gentle. Fuck me.'

Although it was his first time doing this, Mycroft knew what he wanted. 

Wasim was gentle, just to start with. Both of them gasped when his prick breached Mycroft, past the first ring of muscle. It shocked both of them, and for a moment they both could see the other thinking about what they were doing, about what it meant, what it signified. And they waited, and tried to breathe, and then they continued, but it was more difficult than they had thought, Wasim taking a while to make it past the resistance, Mycroft grimacing a few times with the discomfort, trying to relax but feeling tense and sore and raw despite the prep and the lube. 

But at last it was over and Wasim was in him and fully seated. It felt so strange and alien but once that was done, the hissing from Mycroft at the discomfort subsided, and Wasim now took him at his word, at his request, seeming to transform into some kind of wild creature, pushing and thrusting and holding down Mycroft at his shoulders and hitching him up and back hard at the hips, so Mycroft could feel every single movement through his whole body. Feel the smack of Wasim's balls against Mycroft's backside. Feel the squelch and slide of the sweat and the lube. Feel the grind and the friction that was sending his brain offline somewhere he had never thought he'd go, and loosening his grip on reality.

And the friction was so raw and Mycroft was so tight, and Wasim was gasping and groaning and pumping like a madman, rotating his hips, and now Mycroft's enthusiastic teenage cock was suddenly back in the game and growing hard again, and by this time it was much, much too much. Wasim could cope no more and simply yelled and shouted and exploded inside Mycroft with an orgasm that seemed to pulse and pulse and pulse endlessly, flooding Mycroft miraculously with all of himself, and crying over his freckled pale back as he collapsed on top of him.

Mycroft was almost over the edge too, and it took just four swift strokes on his straining prick and he came for a second time, an aching and exquisite experience, messing Wasim's duvet and collapsing with the smaller boy still on top of him, his golden cock still embedded in Mycroft's body, which was amazing. The magic thing softening now, and sweat slippery skin heated but now cooling.

And they lay there, drained, for what seemed like hours but was probably minutes, until they realised it was only ten minutes to lights out, when the housemaster would be up here and it probably wasn't a great idea to be found here together, bollock naked with dried semen smeared all over themselves. So they washed, and they dressed, and they kissed, so long and so, so hard, and then they parted, just for that night.

......................

 

It had been their first time with another man for both of them. 

But there were many more times after that. On the further distant playing fields in the long grass which itched and tickled and cocooned, in niches in the ancient walls of the back Quad at midnight, behind the statue of Henry VIII in the library, the monarch looking approving as they crept out from behind him afterwards. On the small pieces of lead covered flat roof behind the chimneys on the Formal Hall. 

In the boathouse. The boathouse was the best, always a good bet. Cushions piled up in the corner told of generations of Etonians making use of its possibilities, with each other, or with girls from the locality, who fancied doing it with a boy in a tailcoat. 

So much so, it wasn't just Mycroft and Wasim that liked to use it. There was actually a booking system, a small notebook hidden in the loft with a pencil on a piece of string. Hour long slots could be booked, on payment of a pound to the thuggish member of Pop who ran the scam. Miss your booking and it would be copulation on the riverbank, the angle of which offered interesting possibilities for experimenting with new positions.

.......................

 

It was amazing they got away with it. But they did. It was a good training, really, for a lifetime of secrecy, from family about his sexuality in Wasim's case, and to everyone about pretty much everything in Mycroft's case.

...................

Like all reveries, there comes a time for waking, and facing cold reality. 

It had been Mycroft who had taken the step to finish it, in the end. 

They were leaving school, and Mycroft was off to Cambridge a year early due to his precocious academic talents. To bicycles, and punting on the Cam, and Grantchester on Sundays, where there really was always honey still for tea as the poet Rupert Brooke hoped, before he had to settle instead for an eternal home resting in the parched soil of Skyros.

And Wasim was being forced home, to the skyscrapers and the desert and the oppressive supervision of relations, for a year, by the death of his great uncle, the king and head of the family. 

Mycroft said it would be better if they parted. Perhaps to pick up later, again? When Wasim came back, at the end of the year. They could continue, perhaps as before. Perhaps.

....................

When Wasim eventually returned to London, it was four years, not one later, after intense family infighting and intrigue, and several close run attempts by his family to marry him off.

He found Mycroft a changed man; launched in a career as a junior diplomat in a vague sounding department, and with the insecurity of starting a politically sensitive career; and apparently not overly anxious to renew relations with a junior prince of a state that the UK were currently having a 'little local difficulty' with, in the diplomatic department.

What Wasim didn't know then; what he still didn't know to this day; was that much of the change, the coldness and distance he saw and which cut so deeply; was nothing to do with careers and coolness on Mycroft's part. 

Instead it was directly caused by the hell that had been Mycroft's life for the earlier part of his time at University. Enjoying his studies, enjoying his life and the freedom from family: a freedom he had never enjoyed before.

And then, in a split second, a hot summer's day, that carefree part was over, and Mycroft Holmes at seventeen, was carrying an hysterical, psychologically disturbed eleven-year-old William screaming out of a fetid stinking summerhouse at Holmes Manor and into the hell of knowing what had ruined his little brother, whilst unknowingly propelling himself into a lifetime of worry and supervision and misplaced guilt for Sherlock.

....................

Mycroft and Wasim met for tea in Fortnum's, that summer that he returned to England, and the regret and yearning dripped into the Lapsang and made the lavender scones taste bitter and unhappy. The food went untouched, and their bodies too.

...............

Yet, still, something remained. The memories and the gratitude of the joy of their heady love affair couldn't be overridden, and they never forgot each other. 

Over the next few years, they gradually picked up a little more contact, always discreet, always careful. They met occasionally, which was all they risked allowing themselves, in anonymous corporate hotels, booking two rooms for cover under a fake company identity; and, their own sexual identities now more established, fought for dominance and hegemony over the other, the sex rougher and more desperate now it was so rare a prize. 

They trained each other now, to be more dominant, more demanding, harder; and took turns to sublimate their instincts to allow the other to hone their skills. Mycroft was after some years, a master of psychological domination; Wasim much more favouring physical domination. 

But even this periodic, faltering, liaison was not to be permitted to last.

The political situation deteriorated further between their two nations over these years. Britain, with its historical involvement (of mixed fortunes and morality) in the region, couldn't decide whether it most wanted to secure defence jobs in the UK with lucrative arms orders, or act as a global crusader for Middle East peace. 

Wasim's country resented the perceived interference from an ex-global colonial power. There was an unfortunate situation with some British contractors behaving badly. Some awkwardness when a distant relative of Wasim's was accused of serious offences but escaped prosecution when the embassy invoked diplomatic immunity and shipped him back home to face private censure.

Mycroft gradually came to the conclusion, over long nights working in his office or over solitary whisky drinking at the Diogenes Club, that the alliance was not tenable any longer. He'd now chosen his way in life, and his way was his work. His work, and his brother, whose initial dramatic crises had given way to a sordid series of overdoses, and sexual debasement.

He ceased contact. The hotel liaisons stopped. The late night phone calls rang off.

They saw each other rarely, and only then in passing, at parties, at polo, the opera, Ascot, exchanging small sad smiles of greeting and regret. 

But it was never really, properly, definitively, over. For either of them.

*********************

"He would not stay for me, and who can wonder ?  
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze  
I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder  
And went with half my life about my ways."

A.E. HOUSMAN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> If you like a bit of music with your MySim sexytimes, may I humbly suggest  
> Sting :   
> Desert Rose
> 
> And for the parting of ways  
> Adele :  
> I'll Be Waiting


	8. John finds out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: This chapter is a heavy one. Trigger warnings for specific tags are, (unusually), at the end of this chapter. Please check them if they may be an issue.

Sherlock was alone.

 

John Watson wasn't back from his mission after three days. He called on a really bad satellite telephone link from somewhere in the Middle East (not specifying where for security reasons), saying that there was a technical problem with the chopper, and they would have to wait for a replacement part to be brought in. 

So Sherlock ate little, slept even less, and realised his first boxing match would take place before John got back. 

.............

Sherlock arrived at the Catford boxing club, by minicab this time, about an hour before his bout. He changed into his boxing shorts and boots, and was just removing John's dog tags from around his neck (he wasn't that stupid), when his opponent walked in.

Declan O'Connell was an unmistakably mean looking kid. He was short and stocky and appeared to have no discernible neck, just a muscled body topped by an angry head. The contrast between him, a young teenage power pack of testosterone and boiling resentment, and a thirty eight year old consulting detective with a taste for sexual submission, bondage and eyeliner, would be somewhat startling to the casual onlooker. Or would have been, had there been anyone else there onlooking, but young Declan and his Daddy.

Declan O'Connell had not been told anything about his opponent for tonight other than his age. But he took one scornful look at Sherlock, and complained loudly to his Dad who was following him into the changing rooms:

'This has got to be a joke. I'm not fighting that. They've dug up some fucking OAP fairy for me? They're having a fucking laugh.' 

His Daddy agreed in an equally loud voice that tonight was going to be a fucking waste of his time, but it would add to Declan's win count, and it was less dull than fucking punching a fucking punchbag all evening. His granddaddy would want to hear about it when they got home. 

'See how much you can rearrange his pretty face for him. His fag friends won't find him so pretty when you've finished. See if you can lower his shelf price for him.'

And they laughed. Loudly. Clearly the assumption that all gay men were prostitutes was absolutely hilarious. 

Sherlock didn't join in the laughter, unsurprisingly, but neither did he react to the taunting. It was part of the psychology of boxing; and in any case, he never took offence at someone accusing him of being gay, whatever unpleasant terminology they used to do it, since it was true. 

He'd never felt anything else. Never fancied a girl, never wanted to kiss one with or without tongues, squeeze a breast, explore the damp and hidden areas, pant and thrust inside a girl and see her close her eyes in shaking repeated orgasm. 

It had always been men. Either very beautiful men with flashing eyes and long limbs to make him ache and gasp and want to draw them and play music to them. Or men who were the opposite; men who were quiet and strong, who fought, who saved lives, capable and steady eyed brave men. The range of his lusts were split into the Wasim's and the John's of this world.

The only time he reacted, to homophobia, in fact, was if someone was shitty to John about it. Partly because John was sensitive about it. Partly because John was bisexual, not homosexual, unlike Sherlock. But also partly because John's fuse was pretty short at the best of times, and it was best to nip any potential wind-up merchants in the bud, before they found themselves on the floor with their hand twisted up behind their back. Or worse.

He looked up.

'Gentlemen', he said at length, having completed the cursory preparations. 'Onward to the fray. Please, after you....'

.............

Sherlock made his way home towards Baker Street that night with a cut lip, a probably broken and now splinted finger and bruises where he didn't even know he bruised. But he'd beaten that cocky little shit, though he'd admired how the youth took his eventual defeat, swearing unending revenge of the Our Lady Mary down upon Sherlock, and spitting in his face. Sherlock had wiped the blob of saliva off and then wiped it onto the boys hair, ruffling it up and grinning. 

The men (and it was all men), witnessing the illegal match, started to calculate odds on the next illegal match. That would be a proper one.

Sherlock travelled home to Baker Street by mini cab, since London taxis were in the habit of saying in an outraged tone "Sarf of the river, this time of night mate? Nah" ...and driving off.'

He got back to Baker Street to see the flat lit up like Regent Street during the pre-Christmas displays.

He had left it in darkness. 

Either the mice that lived behind the boiler were having a rave again, or John Watson was back. 

............

His throat tightened nervously. He would say he felt guilty, but Sherlock rarely felt that emotion clearly. If something was necessary, even if only by the virtue of being the better of two evils, then there was no choice. And if there was no choice, then guilt wasn't appropriate. 

His logic might have been sound, but only in a childish simplistic way. He left out the possibility of communicating, of pre-warning, of involving his lover in resolving his problems. So used to dealing with them alone, of hiding all of it, he hadn't reached a stage of maturity to realise the harm of the secrecy. 

What he did feel, though, was regret, for the effect of his actions on John, and dawning deep fear, now, of what the consequences might be, now that he would have to face him.

He let himself in without making a sound. As he quietly ascended the stairs, avoiding that one (seven? He thought it was seven) that always squeaked, he could hear John's voice. He must be on the phone. His voice sounded weary and rough, and he didn't sound happy. As Sherlock reached the top few stairs he could hear John's side of the conversation, the old door being old and ill fitting, and poorly insulating any sound.

'I don't give a shit about protocol, Mycroft! I know damn well you know where he is and if you don't tell me I swear I'll......'

Sherlock stepped into the room.

'No need John.' He took the phone from John's hand; said 'Goodnight, Brother dear.' And rang off. Put the phone down. Waited nervously.

And waited. 

......................

It didn't take long. Maybe three, four seconds? Angry John was exhausted, hungry and very, very pissed off. 

Four fucking days I've been away, Sherlock? Can't contact you when I'm going off, can't contact you when I'm away, and there's no fucking sign of you at all when I get back. It's not ON, okay? I've got messages from 'Alicia' wondering if we've both fallen off the end of the Earth, and frankly I have enough to cope with, being stranded in the arse end of nowhere with a casualty, without wondering if you've been in an accident or......'

He came to a stop, the light in the room enabling him to see what he couldn't when Sherlock was in the hallway. 

'What. The. Bloody. Fuck. Have you been doing?'

Sherlock knew this was mild in comparison with what was coming so came out straight with it. 

'Bareknuckle boxing. In Catford.'

John looked at him as if he were some kind of plankton. 

Sherlock tried to help.

'I won. He was only 15, a traveller kid. Really hard lad.'

John breathed noisily through his nostrils.

'I don't...OK. Take your top off. I need to check for injuries, not just on your face.'

Sherlock didn't want to do that, because John wasn't only going to see boxing injuries. This was sliding out of his control faster than he wanted.

'It's fine, it's just my face and finger.'

'Take. It. Off.' 

The last time Sherlock had seen John this angry, there was a Mary in the room being questioned, and Sherlock was shortly to collapse and be taken back to hospital. On the other hand, Sherlock could rarely resist an order from John, even when the steel in it was real and not a role-play, and even when, as now, he feared for what would come next. 

He was wearing a sweat hoody, and removed that. All that was left on his top half was his T shirt. He hoped maybe nothing would show, so long as he kept his bottom half on. But his inner voice was saying loudly "Yeah, and what good will that do? You sleep together. You have sex. How is he not going to see? Man up. Get it over with."

So, Sherlock did get it over with. He was many things, but a coward, he was not. He took off his T shirt, and that was ok, that was fine; and then he turned his back on his lover and pulled down his sweatpants and shorts to below his thighs. 

He couldn't exactly describe afterwards the noise John made. It was kind of a bellow, mixed with a shout.

Then there was a sound of a fist hitting a wall. 

'You did it. You fucking went to Mycroft's people. You knew how I felt about that idea! I've been trying to get injured people out of war zones, and you've been getting your rocks off being flogged and whipped by your brother's cronies. 

And by the looks of this fucking lot, Sherlock, not just once. And not with any FUCKING clothes on. These wounds are direct to the skin.'

Sherlock awkwardly started to pull his pants and trousers back up. He knew this was going to be horrible. 

'No you fucking don't.'

Sherlock started to realise just how angry John was. He slowly let go his pants and trousers, which now pooled around his thighs, and straightened up. He tried to improve things. He wasn't that great at doing that, as a rule. Now was no exception. He should have shut up. He didn't.

'It wasn't like a club or a clinic, John. There weren't multiple people or anything. It was just one person. Not at a premises. Just a flat. A private flat.'

Oh. OK. Not good. That hadn't improved things. 

.........................

John, who had been walking away, whipped round and walked right up to Sherlock's face, almost spitting in it now.

'Ok. So a one to one then? An "At Home". How charming. But instead of cocktails, it's cocks? Friend of Mycroft's, this, I take it?'

His voice had dropped towards the end, and it was dangerously quiet now. That twisted smile was on his face, the one seen just before John attacked Sherlock in the Landmark hotel on Marylebone Road, when Sherlock revealed his return, and upon hearing Mary's threats and confession in Leinster Gardens. It was not a nice face to see, and gave Sherlock an inkling that he was in deeper trouble than he had thought. The words "I had bad days" floated through his brain. Bad day, then, for John, now.

'Um, ah, yes. Abdullah. An old flame of Mycrofts. School friend. But it wasn't how you think John....'

'Was he good then?' 

John cut in, his voice icy. He was tired and furious. He felt angry for Sherlock's disappearing act. Angry about the boxing injuries. But much more than either, he felt completely humiliated, not only that his lover, his only ever male lover, felt the need to go and lie naked in someone else's bed, some boyfriend of Mycroft; Mycroft who John knew had fantasies about his little brother : but more than that, much more, that Sherlock never said a word to him. They were meant to be lovers, Sherlock had known he wasn't coping, and he'd said not a single fucking word to John, just running off like some five year old to wave his willy in the air at god knows who. 

Thinking all this just made him angrier still. Angry to the point that he was now, without really being aware of it, losing control over himself. 

And this time he didn't have the excuse of it being in his sleep, an unconscious nightmare.

His lack of awareness meant there were no brakes applied, no counting to ten, no thinking. Adrenalin took over.

'I mean, you couldn't wait five minutes for me to leave, before you were getting naked with him. He must have been very alluring, Sherlock? Was it his cock? Large was it? Bigger than mine? How many times have you been there?'

'It's not like... Well.......Three.'

'Three. Three? Was he good then? Did you come just from the flogging, or did he have to help you out a bit there?'

'I didn't. We didn't?'

'Come on, Sherlock. This is me you're dealing with. I know what those games do to you. You're hard as soon as the tissue paper in the whip case so much as rustles. I touch your backside with a paddle and you're over the edge. Or did you let him fuck you as well? I assume he was hard too?'

'John, listen to me. It was about the physical stuff. Nothing else.'

'So you didn't get hard when he did it? You lying naked on his bed, bound and trussed I bet.'

'Yes, but....'

'And he did too...Didn't he? Answer me.'

'Yes, but....'

John turned away from him, his fist in his mouth, biting on it. Sherlock didn't know if John was about to cry or hit him. If it was the latter, Sherlock calculated he was going to get hit very, very hard.

It was neither.

.......................

'Drop your trousers right down. And your pants.'

Sherlock hesitated. Looked at John.

'Now. Fucking now. Or God help me...'

John was starting to cry now.

Sherlock complied. His clothing now pooled around his ankles and he shivered. The cuts and weals on his thighs and backside stung as he moved the garments down. He stood, awkwardly, exposed. He suspected what came next. This was his last chance to leave. Would John let him? He didn't know, and he was afraid of the answer, because for the first time ever in their relationship, he actually wasn't sure that John would let him leave before he'd finished with him. 

And that hurt more than anything that was coming next.

The next thing he knew, he was being blindfolded and his hands were bound. John snatched up the gun oil from the desk drawer, his breaths choking with anger and rage as he manhandled Sherlock over to the chair. 

'Bend over.'

John roughly pushed Sherlock over the back of the chair, stripping off his own trousers and underpants, but keeping his dark top on. 

A sharp slap came to Sherlock's already smarting buttocks and he whined with the pain. 

John shouted. Sherlock hoped Mrs Hudson had enjoyed a soother and wouldn't hear.

'You think that hurt did you, you piece of shit? How do you think I feel, coming home and finding you've been fucking Mycroft's twink ?'

Sherlock shook his head vigorously but could think of nothing to say that wouldn't make John even angrier than he already was. He was exhausted from the boxing match, and no match for John when his blood was up.

Without waiting for an answer, John took the gun oil and covered his fingers with it and, parting Sherlock's injured buttocks, prepared to shove two in, straight off.

'This is not what you think, John. I didn't ...'

'Shut your fucking mouth'. And John pressed the fingers in, pushing them in and out roughly and quickly, adding a third too soon. And then, way before it was sensible, he took the fingers away, lubed his prick and forced his way in, Sherlock biting the upholstery of the chair in pain and drawing blood as he bit his tongue. Tears leaked from his eyes. His breathing was ragged. He tried not to panic, tried not to lurch back in his mind to another time when he was forced by someone, tried to keep repeating 'this is not like that, I am not William, this is not the same, this is different.'

It didn't get any better, as John pinned him down with both hands, now, and pounded into him, relentlessly and without mercy. Very soon, his searing fury and frustration only increasing his arousal, John's breaths slackened and slowed to long ragged gasps, and he came noisily and angrily into Sherlock. 

'Fuck you!', John groaned as the last pulse of his orgasm was finished.

Sherlock wasn't even half hard, his cock pressed against the chair, untouched and accusing in its flaccidity. John didn't even notice that, withdrawing as soon as his orgasm was complete. 

As he withdrew, a small amount of come leaked, and taking a finger, he collected it and reached forward, wiping it on Sherlock's cheek like warrior war paint. 

'Tell your little Arabian loverboy slut fucktoy that you won't be going there again. You are mine, and anything you need, will come from here.'

Sherlock winced, as he tried to remove the blindfold with his hands still bound. John made no move to help. He managed to get it off eventually but couldn't, wouldn't meet John's eyes. 

'I can't.'

'I don't think you understand me, Sherlock. I am not sharing you with Mycroft's boyfriend.' 

'He's not his boyfriend.'

'Have they had sex?'

'Yes, but...'

'Enough. Enough, Sherlock. Just enough. I've had it. This.....that, you and him, is not happening again. You go there, I'm out of here.'

Sherlock was a rabbit, blinded by headlights, his gaze frozen to the floor. Looking ridiculous and humiliated in equal measure, with his wounded back and backside, and his clothes round his ankles. Like when Lestrade used to pick him up and rescue him from drugs and sex and strangers.

But this time, John was no rescuer. He was the perpetrator, and the accuser. 

.........................

 

Yet it was Sherlock who was still begging.

'John. Please listen. You have to listen to me. John, I couldn't cope. It was this or the drugs. I can't ask you to do the stuff I need, not that level of beating, and the drugs would risk the baby being taken away.'

John looked incredulous.

'Drugs? Why drugs, Sherlock? You've got a baby coming in a few weeks. Why would you ever need to turn to drugs?'

John really hadn't had a clue. Not a single tiny clue. 

'John. We need to talk. I....I couldn't cope. With any of it. The lack of the beatings. The baby coming. The life of working everyday in the same place. Working for my brother. You not being here. The therapy, the things I had to say, the things I had to relive. 

I was at the point of using, John. And I couldn't do that. Because the baby would be taken away and there would be no baby and then no baby for you later too. And I couldn't ask you to help because I couldn't risk something going wrong, and you ending up in jail. 

I'm scared of what Mycroft would do if there were any other incidents.'

He hoped that would be enough. That John would get it now, would understand.

He didn't.

'Sherlock, I'm not listening to this. You aren't coping, okay. You talk to me about it. We discuss it. We even negotiate stuff we previously ruled out, if we have to. That's what people in a relationship, people who care about each other, do, Sherlock. It's what we promised each other we would do, right at the start of this. It's what enabled me to commit to all this. You don't go silent on me and go and shag some cast-off of Mycroft's. That's what you don't do, Sherlock. Not Fucking Ever.'

Sherlock moved to try to sit down but found he was in too much discomfort to adopt a seated position, now from more than one reason. So he stood, stiffly.

He looked at John and quietly said:

'It was a bad thing to have done. I accept that. I didn't think there was a choice. 

But John, did it justify that, just now? I know I was pretty forceful when we were in Scotland at Hogmanay, but there was consent then, you know there was.

I will only say it once more. I did NOT have sex with W...- Abdullah. He is a good person, and followed what Mycroft requested to the letter. I can't deny physical arousal, of course I can't, and I wouldn't lie to you about that being the case. But neither could some of your patients John, when you examine them in your surgery. And you don't blame them for that. Do you? 

But I did not orgasm, and he did not do so in my presence. 

I went there because I didn't want to do drugs again, and jeopardise the child's future. I believed it wasn't possible for you to do those things for me. Forgive me for making that mistake. You need to rest, you are exhausted. I will not trouble you further tonight.'

And with that, Sherlock pulled up his dirty, soiled clothes, and walked unsteadily out of the flat, and down the stairs, out of the heavy door, out of 221B, away from John. 

........................

John sat down heavily on the sofa, his head in his hands. Then after a minute or so, he stood up, and went over to the window. Sherlock had almost disappeared from sight, his hood over his head, but John caught a glimpse of his stooping gait turning the corner at the end of Baker Street, his head bowed. John had no idea where he was going, or when he would be back. 

'Oh God', he whispered. Memories of the last time Sherlock walked out flooded over him, ending with a bathtub of blood in EC2. 'Not again.......' 

And this time, John Watson knew, there could be no contacting Mycroft Holmes for help. Not if he valued his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non consensual sexual activity. Well, rape, let's be honest about it. Sherlock could have left before it happened, it's true, but was unsure if John would let him. That's not consent......
> 
> Music:  
> Pet Shop Boys :  
> Rent
> 
> (The title of this song I interpret as not primarily monetary but more 'paying dues to the rest of the world'. This song kind of gets me in the guts, in terms of the complexity / co-dependency of Sherlock and Johns relationship in this fic).


	9. Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes: Smutty stuff towards the end. Ohhhhh yessss....

Sherlock walked quickly away from the flat, away down Baker Street so fast that despite the pain, he was almost running. He had to get away, so although he could have done with a shower and putting something healing on his wounds before running out of the flat, he hadn't felt there was any option but to go when he did. He felt sick.

He hadn't been shocked by John's anger, which had been fully expected. He'd thought John might hit him. 

He hadn't thought he would....well, what would you call that? A fine distinction, probably, if you were being charitable. Sherlock could have escaped, initially, but chose not to. Chose to stay and let John continue, partly because he hadn't thought he would carry through with it. But he did. And the manner of it didn't suggest too much concern about willingness, and John knew that; must have known? A doctor, after all. A doctor with serious anger issues, still, then.

He tried to forget about the pain, but the pace he was setting meant he could still feel it, and that wasn't something he wanted to be reminded of, and so once he was out of sight of Baker Street, he slowed a little, so that it eased. 

He wondered if Mycroft's cameras were trailing him, now he was out of the camera dead-zone of the interior of the flat? He tried to walk more normally, so as not to arouse suspicion in his brother's mind. Mycroft had allowed John to return to Sherlock, in return for their agreement to the Holmes baby plan, but that didn't mean that Mycroft wasn't still extremely concerned about whether the two men could live safely together in the long term. Footage showing Sherlock clearly intimately injured leaving John in the flat, would be guaranteed to bring down a swift and merciless response from his brother, Sherlock knew. 

John didn't realise what a dangerous move he had made. He would always be on trial in Mycroft's eyes. The threat would never really recede, so long as Mycroft breathed, and John's anger issues remained. Sherlock knew that, and wondered if John did?

........................

He didn't know where he was heading. It was the middle of the night, there was no moon to light the dark patches in between the pools of light from the streetlamps, and it was raining hard. It was tricky to see the puddles on the pavement in the darkest areas and he had no coat. He thought now about his options for refuge. 

Wasim? He would undoubtedly be thrilled and delighted to see Sherlock. But no: that wasn't an option. Going there would be unfair on the man, give him the wrong idea entirely. Not that it wasn't tempting, given he'd just been well; whatever that had been, John; for doing something he hadn't done. Be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, perhaps.

Of course, he could go to Mycroft. But that would involve questions he didn't feel able to answer. Because if he did answer Mycroft's questions truthfully, John might well disappear without trace : The high powered furnace that ran the heating system in the M16 ziggurat on the South Bank (an odd choice in these days of high oil and gas prices) was a model more commonly used to power crematoria......which was convenient under certain defined circumstances......However upset he was with John, he didn't want that. So Mycroft was out of the question.

Greg? In the old days, Greg would have been his obvious choice. Not so much now, though. Greg was still a friend, but he was now very happily shacked up with Molly, and now he and John weren't being given many cases by the Met, it was more often John who met up with Greg, to watch a match, or go for a beer. Matey, laddish things. Not Sherlock's scene. 

Greg seemed to blame John less for the disasters that had befallen them than he blamed Sherlock, even the attack John made in his sleep, weirdly. Like he felt that Sherlock drew in John to a life where danger and disaster lurked, and Greg felt sorry for John as a result. He could go to them, still, of course, they were still friends, but not without awkward questions, especially from Greg, and he didn't want Molly upset, especially as she was expecting a baby herself.

After this he began to run out of options, that didn't involve familiar old haunts of stinking alleyways or condemned buildings running with rats. Those aspects didn't bother Sherlock much when he was high or seeking a fix, but when he was clean, even if only by the skin of his teeth like now, he did try to avoid such places these days. Perhaps I'm getting too old for it, he mused. Or maybe I've just raised my standards a bit?

He thought about drugs, too, then, with an ache that could quickly snowball if he let it, but realised his money was all at home, as were his bank cards. If he was to score a hit, he'd have to return home first, and get them. He'd have to clear out the account, as he knew Mycroft would be onto him the moment a large cash withdrawal was made, and his accounts would be blocked as soon as that happened. 

He wondered what it must be like to be a proper adult, who was only answerable to the bank for their spending habits, and a free agent? He supposed it was the price he paid for living partly off a family trust fund, and for screwing up a life of privilege. He wondered if it was worth that price any longer?

................

So now the sorry looking figure, that his many fans would have been shocked to know was their sharp suited celebrity detective Sherlock Holmes, pulled the soaking hoodie further over his head, and trudged onwards, in a westerly direction. Every time a car passed, water was flung from the road and soaked him further. 

It was not a night to be out walking the streets. He stuck to the main roads. More splashing from speeding cars, and blinding from their headlights, but the pavements were better maintained and smoother, and he didn't consequently find his foot slipping down a pothole or cobble every minute, sending pain from his arse shooting up his back......

.....It was a long, cold lonely walk, and he arrived at Leinster Gardens only at about 3am. The street was silent and deserted, the hotels and B&Bs all locked up for the night, and his only company was an elderly vixen picking through a bin she had tipped over on the pavement. He hoped she found what she was looking for, and her cubs ate well tonight. She looked as if she could do with a good meal.

His set of picks (a spare set hidden in a knot hole of a large unruly hawthorn bush nearby), made short work of the door lock, and then he was in; into that narrow corridor he'd last seen when unmasking that bitch Mary. He made no apology for the language in his thoughts. Not when he'd witnessed John's set face and rigid posture when Mycroft told Sherlock and Greg, that Moriarty and Mary had planned the child together. 

Rebecca, her daughter, Moriarty's daughter, must be a year old now. 

He wondered which of her parents she took after most, the serial killer or the hired assassin? Hopefully neither, and nurture would outweigh nature. Either way, Mycroft would be keeping a very, very close eye on that little girl, to ensure that the sins of the parents did not flow down into another generation. 

He knew Mycroft had spoken to Mary, offered to pay for schooling for Rebecca in the UK, if necessary to be a legal guardian in case anything happened to Mary. She had enemies, lots of them, not all as merciful as Mycroft, and it was only his mercy and protection, given for John's sake, and that of the child, that had kept her alive to date. 

He hadn't told John about Mycroft's offer, and he didn't know what Mary's answer had been. Mycroft had, to his credit, dealt with the whole sorry affair efficiently and swiftly. Sherlock wondered if someday John should know it all, as his relationship with Mycroft was so strained. Maybe he should know the other side of the story; it might change his view of Mycroft.

...................

There was little home comfort in the cramped space here, but it was at least out of the teeming rain, and he had some dry clothes stashed in a plastic box. Only jeans and sweatshirts, plus some socks and pants, but he would, he knew, feel much better once he was wearing clean gear. He undressed and put the soiled clothes into the box, and put it out of sight from him. Ran his fingers through his damp and greasy curls, and grimaced. He hated being dirty, it reminded him too much of other times when he was unwashed for other reasons. And of times when all the washing in the world could not make him feel clean.

Before he put the clean clothes on, he pulled out a medical kit from behind a large piece of plasterboard. There were antiseptic wipes, and cream, and he made use of them, not only for the whip lacerations, but also for a couple of small wounds situated where there should not have been wounds. He hissed as he drew the wipes over....there......No stitches needed, but painful all the same. More painful really in his head, than his backside. The humiliation and the broken trust it represented hurt far more, and would take much longer to heal, if he allowed it to.

Once treated and dressed, he rummaged in a smaller plastic snap lock box in the corner. There was a travel kettle, some bottled water and some Pot Noodles and cup-a-soups. Vile, primordial soup with plankton, and normally not anything he would consider, but warming, and most importantly, not having the capacity to trigger him : he really didn't need that happening again right now. He plugged the kettle into the electricity outlet he paid to be maintained on the place; there was just one socket but it was enough. Once the water was boiled he unplugged the kettle, and replaced the kettle plug with that for his phone charger, switching his phone on. The glow from it was eerie in this equally eerie place.

There were twenty three messages or missed calls from John. 

All of which he deleted without reading. 

Once he'd finished the soup he'd chosen from the lucky dip, he lay down, using a dusty binbag full of what felt like polystyrene insulation granules as a pillow. There wasn't anything to use as a mattress, but he was so exhausted that he still fell straight into a fitful sleep. 

He knew he had to make the most of it: he wouldn't be able to stay here another night. They'd look here now - they knew this bolt hole existed. He ought to have found a new place, after that night here with John and Mary. He hadn't thought he'd need one, but maybe he was wrong. It's just it isn't easy, to sell the facade of an empty house, except to the kind of people who rarely advertise they are looking for such a thing. Tomorrow he would have to move on, or go back to Baker Street......Tomorrow.....and with that word on his lips, Sherlock fell asleep.

He did not sleep well. The bag of polystyrene granules must have caught on something as he tossed and turned during the night, and had split, leaving him with little padding to lie his head on other than the single spare clean sweatshirt. His hair was coated in dust and dirt by the time he woke for the fifth and last time. He had been thrashing out during his short periods of sleep; his nightmares vivid and full of rooms with walls that moved, closing in towards him unrelentingly; and of small children with faces that looked normal to all the other people he was with, but whose flesh peeled off when he alone looked at them, revealing the muscles and sinews and bones beneath as they opened their mouths and screamed unearthly cries.

His body ached unrelentingly. He was tired, in mind and body, and heartsick beyond words.

It was five thirty in the morning when he woke. For a moment he didn't remember the previous night, or where he was, and he sat bolt upright; and then, suddenly he did. Stared at the wall, chunks of plaster missing, like a machine gun had rattled across it. At the graffiti, some of it nonsensical, some of it lewd, some of it fairly artistic but with an understanding of the capabilities of the human body that suggested the artist had spent more time playing on computer games than actually meeting the opposite sex.

This was no good. 

He got up, stretched, immediately regretted stretching and as a result spent the next fifteen minutes back with his first aid kit. 

.....................

After a breakfast of a Pot Noodle expiry-dated three years previously (though these things were nuclear, practically, so he didn't think it would matter), he sat on the sweatshirt, with his fingers steepled, and with some relief, went to his Mind Palace. 

Deciding where to put last night's events took some time. It was painful to visit these particular rooms.

In the cellar of the Palace was Jonathon Lang, of course, in the centre of the room, the emperor of all he surveyed, sitting on a weirdly cheerful red tartan blanket; and with him was everything he had touched, his smell, his clothes, the rooms he was in, the things he had used on Sherlock, in Sherlock. His voice, his cajoling, manipulating voice, complimenting, threatening, lying in turn; telling the lonely and immature isolated eleven year old that this was their secret, that he would be a man, that Jonathon was so pleased and so proud. That the blood was normal and the pain would go, and that they would be together forever, and that it was good, really good and pure, but that other people just didn't understand and they were jealous, William, just jealous, because they didn't have this, what they had..........

And Moriarty was there too, the evil mastermind, lurching, chained, around his padded cell in the corner of the room, foaming at the mouth and spitting with unhinged fury and madness. Reminding Sherlock that they were just the same, twins, separated only by a few silly morals.

And there were moments of himself, Sherlock, too, letting himself be used by others, crying out and begging them to, just so they would give him enough cocaine or smack to last him a few more hours. 

And there were his other guilts, leaving John to his grief after the Fall. Unavoidable, he'd thought, still thought; but he hadn't understood what such loss did to people who were properly human and capable of love that Sherlock hadn't even understood they could feel. He understood now, though. 

And guilt at the actions of William Holmes, who kept secrets for weeks and weeks, bad secrets: kept secrets because he would be sent away if he told, would be locked up, taken away from Mycroft and his home and his parents because he'd done such bad, dirty things. Who after It was over, still did bad things, new ones, destructive things. Weird things. Abnormal things. Freaky things.

John's actions last night. His attack? Sherlock wasn't sure if he could articulate the word "attack" to himself. Should it join them? It should. He knew that. There wasn't really any question about it, objectively speaking. But....it was his choice. His decision. And it would mean an element of John living here, with the things that lived here. 

He stood at the top of the cellar steps, blinking into the darkness, one foot hovering over the step, one hand hovering over the light switch. Waiting to go down and add this to all the rest of the stinking pile. Chewing his lip.

...................

Then he set his jaw. He turned away. 

He shut the door at the top of the cellar stairs. And bolted it, tight shut. Padlocked it. He turned around and out of the Palace door, down the path into the palace gardens, and down to the damp fusty far corner, where the gardener piled up the hedge clippings and dead leaves he'd swept up, to burn in the incinerator bin they kept there. He took the lid off the bin. Good, it was empty. Room for all of this to go in, then.

And in his mind, he took the events of the previous night, and mentally threw them into the bin. As the last seconds of the timeline fell in, he took out his lighter, lit a piece of newspaper, and dropped it in, slamming the hole stamped metal lid back on top of the bin. Flames licked up, slowly at first. But suddenly the wind got up, and the flames started to roar and pop. Soon, there was nothing left but ash, and Sherlock, by now smoke stained, mentally turned back towards the Palace buildings, leaving the painful memories behind.

He came back to consciousness.

He felt competently mentally, now to face John. 

He decided it was time to go home, back to Baker Street. The last time he'd bolted from there, from John, he'd ended up kidnapped and tortured by Moran in that sluice room of a bathroom in the Barbican. Having to be rescued by John and by Anthea. 

Not again. Not this time. This time, he was going to be a proper man; try to make things end another way, try to sort things out with John. This time, it would be different. It had to be. He couldn't live without John any more, whatever form John took, and whatever John did. It might not be healthy, it wasn't healthy; but his life choices were rarely that.

...................

As he wearily approached the flat from the far end of Baker Street several hours later, Sherlock began to feel anxious again. Memories of the previous night's confrontation and subsequent events that he'd thought he had burned to nothing, returned in flakes of half-burned memories floating down, and they made him feel nauseous now. He leaned against a shop front and breathed heavily, his hands on his knees. Commuters looked at him in a hostile manner, his appearance inviting the condemnation of complete strangers.

Finally, his head cleared and he took one last breath, stood, and then made his way to 221B.

He climbed the stairs slowly, and let himself into the flat. It was quiet, deadly quiet, the only sound a fly buzzing, as it flew helplessly again and again against the bulletproof glass windows.

John was there, though.

He was there in the living room, his head sunk into his chest, sitting slumped way down in his armchair, legs extended out in front. There was an empty glass next to him and a whisky bottle which had been almost full, now about half gone, on the coffee table. There was also, Sherlock noted, a large damp stain on the rug next to the chair which Sherlock suspected might have been where someone had mopped up vomit. The room reeked of the sour smell of whisky.

The reddened eyes and stained cheeks of the man who stared out into nothing, told Sherlock that John had spent a very miserable night alone in the flat, likely not moving from that chair. He hadn't drunk as much as this for as long as Sherlock could remember, and it was never a good sign anyway, when John drank spirits in any quantity. It pierced Sherlock's heart to see him like this. Even despite......

Sherlock said nothing, but sat down in his own chair facing John's. Didn't know what to say. What do you say?

He looked at John briefly, just for a moment. Haggard. Sunken. Lost. He then looked down at John's small feet. They were bare, and there were many small wounds in the flesh, peppered over the upper surface of each foot. Why? Sherlock looked at the walls. Ah yes, there; to the side of the fireplace, to the left. A drying but still visible stain, and a dustpan and brush underneath, containing hundreds of tiny shattered shards of glass. He'd thrown his original whisky glass at the wall, then? That was why the smell was so strong. Must have done it hard, for the fragments to be so small. Had cleared it up but not made it back to the kitchen to dispose of it. Just sunk back down into the chair, adopting the pose he held now.

Sherlock looked back at the floor again. Steepled his fingers. Closed his eyes.

The silence continued for far longer than it should have done. It might have been twenty minutes, but may have been much longer. Irrelevant.

John broke it first. 

He looked up slowly, his bloodshot eyes meeting Sherlock's, the navy blue depths of them darker even than usual, and tears gathered at the red sore corners. His nose was running but had been doing so for a while, as some of the snot had long since dried in a trail. He didn't appear to have noticed.

John swallowed hard, then spoke, his voice rough and deeper than normal.

'Thank you for coming home. I'll leave if you want me to. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done what I did. There was no excuse. I don't know why I thought it was ever an ok thing to do. It wasn't, not to anyone. And especially - especially not - not ever, to you.'

He bit his lip hard. Now looked Sherlock straight in the eye, though Sherlock could see it was a struggle to do so, that John wanted to look anywhere but there.

I would understand if you, you know, felt you should. Well. Report it. Get them to take me in, charge me. With rape. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? I'd understand. Be better that, than your brother getting hold of me when he finds out, to be honest. At least prison sentences end sometime, though he'll probably make sure they throw in the cabbie murder too, so maybe not for decades....'

Then John was crying properly, bitter tears of misery and self pity and drink combined that dropped off his nose and landed on his jeans, staining them a dark indigo like his eyes.

'I just wanted it to be us. Only us. Just us. Always. I know that's no excuse. Not at all. I just....This is the second time I've done this, Sherlock. Hurt you. Done something really bad. And it fucking scares me, it fucking scares me that other people are right, the ones that say that we're bad for each other, that it isn't safe; that we're prisoners of our experiences and too damaged to avoid hurting each other. That one of us might end up dead. And that it might be you, because from where I'm seeing it, it's two nil for me assaulting you. I just....'

He trailed off into more crying.

There was a long pause before Sherlock spoke. 

He tried to revert to his neutral voice, the one he used to separate himself from what he was saying. It had always worked before, but it didn't work now. His voice didn't come out how he intended. Instead of cold and flat, it was broken and scratchy. 

'I was expecting your anger, John. I just didn't expect it in that form. 

I don't blame you for not believing what I said. I do lie, and deceive, it's true, I've been doing it to you for weeks. Telling you I was going to the gym when I was swimming and boxing and riding racehorses. And not telling you about not coping. And especially not telling you about Abdullah. Especially that part. Because even if I told the truth, which I did, John, about not having sex with him : because, John, that will never ever ever happen while we are together : it is a difficult thing for you to deal with, even with that proviso.

And there was no reason for you to think I would tell the truth then, except that you might have, I hoped you WOULD have, would know that there is a line : a line that isn't where you want it to be, but it is there, and that I wouldn't cross that line.

I do blame you for what you did, John. What you did was wrong, and it can't be undone, and it can't help but hurt. I've already had a lifetime's worth of abusive sex, John, and you knew that. This was dubious consent pushed to its limits and maybe over them.

I need you to tell me you can say it won't happen again, John. 

I'm not reporting anything to anyone. Especially not Mycroft. But I, me, I have to be able to trust you. Can I trust you, really, truly?' 

John hung his head low. 

'Nothing remotely like that will ever happen again Sherlock. Ever.'

Then he cried more.

Sherlock looked at him from under his eyelashes. He looked sad but calm.

'Then that is the end of it, John. I love you and need you too much to quit you. I wouldn't know how to. You're wrong, by the way. This is a first, not a second attack. I don't count the other attack at all. You were asleep and it was a PTSD nightmare, and you were completely innocent of any blame. This time, is really worse for me. This time, you did real harm to me, and to us.

But as I say, this is going to be deleted. You know I can do that. I already have done so in my Mind Palace, I burned it, although some slightly unburned bits floated off so there's still a little more work to do.

But we need to work out what we do now, John. How we resolve this impasse, where you can't do something I need, but don't want someone else to provide it.'

Sherlock took a deep breath. 

I should like you to meet Abdullah. He is very curious and keen to meet you. Would that be possible?'

John looked up, and shook his head. But he didn't mean it as a no. He meant it as a communication that he had no right to express an opinion.

'At this moment in time, whilst I have no desire at all to do so, to meet this person, I wouldn't deny you pretty much any request, Sherlock. So I will go anywhere, meet anyone, whatever or whoever it is. 

I do still find it weird to meet this man though. And if I don't like his attitude, if he is remotely possessive or oversteps the mark, I will be walking. Even if that means you turning me in. Even if that means I lose you, I can't ....share you totally.'

'Thats understood. Let me call him now.'

Sherlock was only on the phone for around a minute. John couldn't hear the voice at the other end, so it must be soft and low. He was wondering about this man he was to meet.

All organised. I should have done this to start with, but I was afraid you wouldn't agree. 

'I wouldn't have', said John, and the slightest ghost of a wan smile passed his lips. 

'Tea?'

...............

Sherlock didn't know whether this was a good idea or not. They hadn't resolved whether he was going to be able to return to Wasim, between now and the baby's birth. The need hadn't gone away. Was John able to do more of that physical stuff himself? Sherlock didn't want to force him, God knows, he'd had enough of anyone forcing anyone around here, but would John be able to stomach Sherlock getting the need met elsewhere? 

He would soon find out, he reasoned. The meeting was fixed for the following day. 

Wasim had been surprised by the request, because he knew it meant that Sherlock must have told John about his existence. He knew nothing of the confrontation and what followed, and he knew better than to ask.

He had seen that photograph of John, however. And had seen the look in John's eye, and knew what it told him. Wasim was informed by Sherlock only that he was being introduced as "Abdullah", as he had requested. The rest of the strategy, the handling of this angry dangerous little man; Wasim, or rather, Abdullah, would have to work out for himself.

...................

Sherlock read silently late into the evening, some articles about dental techniques and how they could help to age the advanced decomposed corpse. He sat at the desk table, facing away at right angles from John's gaze. There was little conversation. 

John offered to make them some tea at one point, rather half-heartedly, but there was no response, so the teacups sat, unused and alone, on the draining board, and a fly came and drank from the drops of water on them where John had prepared them in anticipation of tea that was never made. It really couldn't get more symbolic of the gulf between the two men. 

John watched a documentary that mainly seemed to involve very blurry underwater pictures of a shipwreck, in which little was discernible on the small screen so far as Sherlock could tell, except billowing silt clouds and an occasional scuttling crab. 

Perhaps it was the small TV screen to blame, Sherlock thought? Archie the pageboy at John's wedding had refused to believe it was a TV at all when he had seen it. 

'It's a laptop screen. It must be. It's too small to be a TV. TVs are like 40 or 50 inches. This is only 20.' Sherlock had insisted it was in fact a TV, but a TV for people who didn't really like TV. That just made Archie look even more confused and say 'but there's a proper one somewhere else, in a TV room, right?', at which point Sherlock had given up. 

Perhaps he should buy John a big TV? Perhaps a home cinema system. Perhaps that would help? 

Sherlock didn't know what would help, not really, and knew that probably a home cinema system wasn't really the answer, when what John really wanted, all he really wanted, wasn't a huge telly but a lover who was as faithful to John as John was to him, one that wasn't so fucked up that he needed to go and be flogged by strangers in a marble floored flat in SW1 to avoid him hitting hard drugs, and one that could share John's excitement about his becoming a father rather than dreading both the event, and the effect on himself, more than anything he could imagine.

Right now, the only one of those things that was addressable in any way was the question of the physical side. 

...................

John didn't seem to notice when the documentary finished and the channel started showing a repeat of a cookery programme. He sat there with glazed eyes, until at length he sighed, and rose, turning to look questioningly at Sherlock as he left the room. No reaction was evident, but Sherlock silently followed a few minutes later, slipping wordlessly in between the covers of their shared bed, his long, cool limbs sliding up behind John's warm , solid body. John could have wept with happiness to feel him there, his skin touching, with the possibility of his own redemption in every contact. 

John spoke quietly into his pillow. Then turned his head and looked at Sherlock.

'Please fuck me.'

Sherlock looked at him. 

'Please, Sherlock.'

Sherlock turned John so he was facing him. 

'If this is some kind of restorative justice, you wanting me to fuck you, because of what you did, it really doesn't work like...'

'I know. It's not like that. I do want you to use me, to be rough, to pin me down, punish me. But not so that it will wipe away any of my guilt. It won't. I'm asking for this, it's consented. so it bears no relation, does it? That's the whole point. You didn't agree, you didn't have a choice. This is just an offer and a request, and also a recognition that what I did means the other option, me topping, isn't really an option for a while. How are you, down there, was it...ok?'

'Not great, John, several small fissures. No stitches. I'd rather not discuss it.'

John clapped his hand over his mouth.  
'Oh my god. No. I can't ...I didn't...wouldn't..oh Jesus..I'm a fucking doctor and I did this.....' And began to moan under his breath, rocking too and fro. 

Rather than tell him it didnt matter and wasn't important and was fine, because that frankly just really wasn't true, Sherlock instead curled himself around John's back and began to stroke his hand down John's side, and then the the outside of his leg, in long sweeping arcs, brushing along and gently massaging as he went. His face he buried in the back of John's shoulders, raining small kisses in a circle on his shoulder blade and above it, and gradually moving to do the same to the back of his neck. 

John choked and then blurted out. 'Please, just use me. Fuck me like I'm trash. Because I am.'

But the more John begged Sherlock to use him, to hit him, to pin him down, to punish him, the lighter and gentler Sherlocks touches and kisses became. Even when his fingers touched John, caressed him, brought him to aching hardness, then moved back to circle and then slide in his entrance, it was gentle and almost painfully soft and caring.

There was no flip to a more forthright approach, no sudden move to a more active and aggressive copulation. John was lain almost flat on his stomach, and Sherlock, when he finally lubed his cock and lined up, took minutes and minutes to fully seat himself in John, from his first tentative entrance. Then he hardly moved at all for minutes more. 

Finally, by which time John was practically expiring from the frustration of wanting more and being given only tiny degrees of friction, Sherlock thrust just once, twice, three, four times, and gasped and came in John, his semen flooding inside like a lake. He whimpered as he ejaculated, a small cry, almost one of pain, like an animal with a broken leg, hit by a car and left by the roadside. His coming filling John with himself, and hope, but leaving John himself unfulfilled. 

Sherlock slowly and carefully withdrew his softening prick from Johns arse, and rolled off him, and away to the side, lying on his back, staring silently at the ceiling. It was almost impersonal, this sex with a total lack of communication. 

John knew he deserved this. Much, much more actually, than just being left frustrated. He went to get out of bed. He could deal with this himself in the bathroom. Maybe have a shower.

An arm reached out. Sherlock shook his head. John was puzzled. He thought maybe Sherlock didn't think he was entitled to an orgasm out of this. John couldn't disagree, so he lay back down in bed on his back, and tried to will his erection away, virtually impossible for him when there was a Sherlock within a hundred feet, let alone in the same bed. 

John lay for a few minutes and then started to drift off to sleep. He was still hard, but that would go after a while. He closed his eyes and gradually his breathing became slower and more regular. 

A few minutes later, he began to smile in his sleep, to toss and to turn. It was a classic wet dream. As often in John's dreams, he dreamed his fantasies. Sherlock and he were on holiday, making love on a wild and deserted beach. Or they were in an army camp, and John was in uniform, and Sherlock was his cadet, and he was fucking him from behind across High table in the Officers Mess. 

Or, most fantasy laden of all, because they never did it because of Sherlock's abuse, John was lying back and Sherlock had taken him fully in his mouth and was sucking him off, those perfect Cupid bow lips wrapped around John's generous cock and his long fingered hands at the base and on his balls and one finger stabbing up his arse, and then John would thrust and thrust and hold tight on Sherlock's hair and his prick would be halfway down his lover's throat and the sound would be of Sherlock breathing though his nose and gasping and swallowing and swallowing......

.......and then John woke and opened his eyes and Sherlock was between his legs and none of it was a dream : and Sherlock's mouth was around him surrounding and sucking and the sounds, oh God, the sounds, and John was turned on by the sounds but much more, so much more by the sight of it, the dark curls tossing as Sherlock took a deep breath and then took in his whole length and relaxed his throat and just Jesus.....John couldn't take much more of it and grabbed Sherlocks head and tried not to pull or press too hard, and then he was coming and it was like Stephenson's fucking Rocket train and he was crying and coming and coming and crying and Sherlock was looking shocked at the sheer amount and was swallowing once, twice, three times and then licking John's cock clean and shining and licking round his own mouth which was almost more than John could stand. 

At last, they collapsed back, alongside one another. Not a single word had been exchanged.

John rolled over to Sherlock's side. 

Now he spoke.

'That was. You know it was. Incredible. Just incredible. Why could you do it now? Why did you want to? When I least deserve it?

Sherlock didn't look at him. He stared away, across to the door, to the tattered chart of the Periodic Table, a table he knew off by heart but chose to look at anyway as a symbol of the stark beauty of science and the value of seeking knowledge above all things. 

But he did speak. 

'I wanted to demonstrate to your the only way I knew really would, more than anything else, that my commitment, my trust, my life, is yours alone. Whatever I do with Abdullah. Whatever I have done with other men, for drugs. No one else has this level of trust, of love and commitment. Despite yesterday. That doesn't change it. Not for me, anyway.'

John felt like an unworthy insect that was not fit to live in the cracks in the floorboards. 

'I don't know what to say. It..this...I didn't think it was a gift you would..you could ever give anyone. And you give it to me, me who pretty much raped you? How can you think I deserve it? Deserve you? Ever deserve you again?'

Sherlock looked at him with an expression that mixed tenderness and sorrow and helplessness and utter pain.

'Because I chose you.'

The words, amended, that Sherlock had said to John about Mary that night, where he tried to convince John to forgive her for shooting Sherlock. 

Now Sherlock said it about himself. Everything happens because of the decision to choose one path, one person. John chose Mary, and that brought all that came after. Now Sherlock said the same: that this came upon him because he, being who he was, and knowing the things that were missing from himself, the things he couldn't be, chose John, being the person he was, and with his own flaws, and with the consequences that those flaws would bring. 

It was very fatalistic for someone who had no time for any religion or belief system. 

John wondered if the ten year old pre-Lang William Holmes had been quite so deterministic, or if this was partly a result of what had happened to William. But he couldn't help but give thanks to whatever had ingrained this attitude in Sherlock, that he would never leave John. 

The trouble was, that meant it was even more incumbent on John himself to behave better than he had recently.

He shivered, and then moved right up behind Sherlock, and curled protectively along it, his arms around him, tightly gripping his body as thought he were clinging to the rocks as the tide turned. Held him with desperation. Sherlock felt the tight grip, and could feel John silently shaking with unshed tears, and allowed himself to rest now, knowing he had chosen his path, chosen to forgive. 

John lay awake far into the night. Listening to the distant unceasing hum of traffic, and blinking at the glow of the streetlights shining in the window with its undrawn curtains. Regarding Sherlock's sleeping profile, the lines softened in rest. 

Another chance, then. Undeserved, he knew. He wouldn't waste it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: 
> 
> Capercaillie:  
> 'Aileen Dunn'  
> (NB this is a mis-spelling of the Gaelic name on iTunes but I've replicated it so you can find the song. In English the title is 'Dark (haired) Alan'). It was used in the film 'Rob Roy', starring Liam Neeson.


	10. John meets his mysterious rival....

Sherlock and John reached the Bluebird restaurant on the Fulham road very early, and some time before their lunch booking. Sherlock had used Mycroft's influence to get them the best and most private table. 

This was one of his favourite restaurants of all. An converted old Michelin petrol station of all things, but one from the thirties, the first floor restaurant all Art Deco and stained glass and light. Downstairs was a seafood bar. The blue glass was especially beautiful. Even the ashtrays were Michelin men sitting on the side. Sherlock had to admit to having pocketed one or two in his time and he suspected he wasn't alone. The cuisine was classically French, majoring on seafood, and the seating was unashamedly comfortable, with well upholstered armchairs for diners. It was the sort of place to come to not to impress, though it surely would, but to really enjoy and relax over your food. Bring your parents. Bring your dom. A place to come when you were paying the bill yourself. Classy. Classic.

However, all that being said, and Sherlock being fond of Bluebird; in the end it had been his choice today solely because of those comfy chairs, given the state of his backside. The waiter, bringing up chairs as each diner sat, stared as Sherlock, dressed immaculately in Spencer Hart, sat with exaggerated slowness down onto the cushion. Then the waiter walked away, giving John a sidelong glance of intense admiration, clearly communicating; "Not only have you, Mr Solid Everyman, rocked up with fucking Lord Byron in a suit, but you've clearly nailed him into the bed springs so hard he can't actually walk. My sincere congratulations, sir."

Sherlock saw this silent communication, and frowned at the waiter, but John was oblivious, still steeped in his guilt and humiliation. He looked down at his menu, his face screwed up trying to translate the French descriptions, his small tongue sticking out as he tried to choose between the equally delicious options. 

Sherlock looked at that mouth and that tongue, and knew he should be much angrier than he was. Instead, his guts lurched yet again, as they ever did, with the hopeless wave of love that he knew was John's, would always only ever be John's. He was lost to it. John saw his gaze, and looked away, not wanting to hope too much, but still, hope flickered in his veins and his heart, that all was not lost.

It was just a few minutes of very little chat later, with John still perusing the short menu, and Sherlock chewing half-heartedly on a small piece of torn off baguette, smothered with beurre au sel, that Wasim, or Abdullah as he was today, arrived. 

He did not see them straight away, as they were tucked away in a corner. He was directed over by the maître d'. Women (and some men) to a person all turned to look at the newcomer to the room. He had that effect on people. He wasn't a film star, but the combination of looks and obvious wealth had the same effect. Every time he walked into a room, he made an entrance.

Sherlock wished that the man looked.....well, perhaps a little less Wasim-like, but he seemed to be even more him-like today. He was dressed immaculately in a perfectly tailored suit. Once he approached, Sherlock could tell he also smelt completely delicious. That was tailored too, as it wasn't in Sherlock's mental database of male fragrances. And it wasn't majoring on sandalwood, so no trigger issues for Sherlock.

Damn him. This wouldn't help. Not when John had insisted on wearing an off the peg number from M&S, instead of one of the suits Sherlock had bought him That Day They Went to Savile Row. But Sherlock wasn't sure if John had done that deliberately, in order to present himself as someone with a power that didn't depend on surface presentation, and to communicate to someone he saw as a rival, that they would never understand or compete with the nature of this connection?

Or maybe John was just too racked with guilt and misery to care when he picked out his choice of clothing today.

John was right, though, if it had been the former. Sherlock desired John more than he ever would anyone else, way more even than this vision of male perfection; it was the effect on John, and his ability to believe that, which Sherlock was worried most about. 

Now he stood, welcomed Wasim as 'Abdullah', kissing him on both cheeks, and finally turning to John. 

John, this is Prince Abdullah. Abdullah, please may I present my partner, personal - and professional, Doctor John Watson. 

Instead of shaking hands, Abdullah came around the table right to where John stood. He took John by surprise and John stiffened, sensing a threat or attempt at intimidation. Abdullah regarded John closely, scanning his face, and then suddenly kissed him on both cheeks. He then took both of John's hands in his own, tracing over the bones carefully with his long, graceful fingers.

Diners at the next table stared. Some with food halfway to their mouths. Some just drinking in the appearance of two of the three men. Others fascinated by what was clearly, even if they couldn't hear the voices, a very, very interesting encounter between two men, one gorgeous, one ordinary, involving the third man. Also gorgeous.That third man they thought they might recognise, but couldn't quite place.

Wasim ignored the attention, but did speak quietly. 

'John. Sherlock's beloved one. I have heard many things about you. Your courage, your loyalty, and your morals. But most of all, I have seen things about you on Sherlock's face. I have seen that this man' (he gestured to Sherlock who was looking on nervously), 'that this man, has a love for you which is entirely indefinable. Unquestioning. Immeasurable. It is written all over him. And, John: it is completely unchallengeable.'

John choked slightly and went as if to say something, but Abdullah had not finished. He smiled at John. 

I understand that you do not find it easy, I think, the time that Sherlock and I are spending together. It is not a concern for me, but I know these things are not usual in your circles.

I do not demand that we continue, though I think it is helping him get through these weeks before the child arrives. This is for you to decide together. 

John, I am a human man, no better. I cannot promise you that if Sherlock offered himself to me, that I would refuse him. And our bodies react as they will, when we do what we must to help him. But I see it in his face, that he has no positive wish for it, no desire to really be with another. When I beat him, John, any excitement his body displays is arousal meant for only one man, and that man is you. 

You have three options, I think. You can allow this to continue, and trust him, and trust me. 

Or, you can trust yourself, to undertake this on your own. I can help with some techniques to help your confidence in both your own ability to control yourself, and to manage Sherlock in setting boundaries.

Or, John, you can say that all this stops now, today, and I will have no further part in it, and you will not hear from me again. Which brings its own risks, as I'm sure Sherlock has explained. 

But now, now let us eat. The ceviche is excellent, I understand?'

With that, Abdullah sat, and waited for the other two men to do likewise. He called for the wine list. 

..................

John didn't address the questions Abdullah raised straight away. Instead, the three men, this peculiar triumvirate, sat, and ate, and drank, and talked. Abdullah talked in detail of his homeland, which was of great interest to John, even though he had realised by now that Abdullah was probably not this man's real name, and the name of the Arab state he had said he was from, was probably not strictly true either...... After all, he was a friend of Mycrofts.....

At the end of a delicious and surprisingly convivial repast, everyone now feeling full and content, and the hackles having smoothed down, John put down his napkin and sipped thoughtfully at his coffee. Sherlock became immediately alert. Abdullah hadn't ever stopped his quiet watchful focus on John. He knew John's type. Knew that there was a smooth surface and a pit of boiling rage beneath.

Both Sherlock and Abdullah expected the same answer from John. That he would allow this to go on, and only until the birth. That wasn't what they got. 

John cleared his throat.

'Okay. The thing is, I accept the premise that this is about beating and not about sex, and that nothing beyond the beating has gone on. And I would tolerate it until the baby came, if that were the solution. The idea seems to be that after that it won't be needed. So that's all fine. Well, fine-ish.

But I don't believe that. I mean, I don't believe that the need will go away for good. I don't believe there won't come another time when there's a crisis and the need won't arise again. Then we will be here again. With you, Abdullah, charming as you are, whatever your real name actually is. Or someone like you. Maybe with fewer principles. And with lies and subterfuge and my anger boiling over in ways that are not acceptable. (A look now from Abdullah to Sherlock, a crinkling of the brow in concern about how the revelation had been met, and what John might be talking about). Sherlock merely shook his head. Not being discussed. Andullah bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.

John continued. 

'So I've concluded that the only answer lies in me revisiting my boundaries, enough that we can keep this between us two, despite the risks that poses to us both. I will gladly take your offer, Abdullah, to help me manage that safely. And I am sorry to be stealing Sherlock back away from you. I, of all people, know his magnetism.'

Abdullah bowed his head in immediate acquiescence.

'I cannot pretend that my heart is not seared by the parting from my gazelle.' (John started at this word, and stared at Sherlock. 'Gazelle'? Said without a hint of irony...hmmm,.....a good job I'm pulling the plug, he thought. The prince was clearly in deep).

'However, if it helps, John, I think you are making a courageous and correct decision for your long term future. I will gladly help, on this and in any other way I can in the future. I do also think you might consider talking to Mycroft. I know you are concerned about his attitude to learning of this development, but Mycroft does also have many.....valuable skills....in this area, and can help and advise too.'

John looked at Sherlock. 

'What does he mean?'

'He means', said Sherlock, looking at his shoes as if he had missed a spot when cleaning them, 'that Mycroft, I have learned recently, is quite the doyen of London society Doms; and that should there be medals for that as well as his day job, he'd have a Gold Gong.'

John's mouth fell open. 

'But he didn't...you....'

'He offered. Before looking to Abdullah. Yes, he did offer. From a security perspective, not a sexual one, primarily. But I declined, as I felt it would be too difficult for you and ultimately too risky for him, given, well. You know.'

John felt even more guilty now, knowing that Sherlock had turned Mycroft away because John wouldn't like it, thinking John would find a stranger more acceptable; and then John had gone and done what he did. What would John have done if he had found out it had been Mycroft? He didn't dare to think. 

The meal over, the men stood. John this time happy enough to be kissed on the cheek by Abdullah. John then moved back, and busied himself reading a theatre programme he found in his pocket, while Sherlock and Abdullah said their farewells. It wasn't too bad. There were no rolling tears and histrionics. Just muttering from Wasim (let's use his real name here) about dunes and sunrises and other guff (in Jealous John's opinion he was laying it on a bit thick) and kisses from Sherlock that were chaste and all the more charged for it.

Then the two men parted, and Wasim got into his hovering limousine, and Sherlock rejoined John, took his face fully in both hands, and kissed him passionately in the middle of the pavement of the Fulham Road, stared at by open-mouthed diners cracking open crab claws and troughing their way through their plateaus de fruits de mer. 

John saw Wasim's face as the taxi moved away. He was smiling, John saw, smiling the smile of a man who knew he was never even in the game, but played it like the gentleman he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Bluebird restaurant in Chelsea. Yum yum (said in my best CAM voice). One of my faves. Maybe if everyone goes and eats there, I can sit outside looking like a hungry baby penguin and they'll throw me a breadstick :-))  
> http://www.bluebird-restaurant.co.uk/at/
> 
> Music for this chapter: 
> 
> Dolly Parton :  
> Here You Come Again  
> A tribute to lovely yummy Wasim :-)))
> 
> NOTE: in the next chapter, events start to get exciting....!


	11. Duty Calls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of Smut. And lots of Plot. Heavens above....

Mycroft called at Baker Street that night. 

Of course he did. Why would it be otherwise? Wasim's loyalty to Sherlock was new and it was fervent, but his loyalty to Mycroft was deep and decades aged. He'd probably updated Mycroft before he'd even reached Pall Mall......

Mycroft squinted slightly at Sherlock's noticeably stiff gait, but eventually apparently concluded it was down to a combination of bareknuckle boxing and rowdy sex, rather than the actual still more distasteful truth. He did take a second narrowed glance however, so it was a close run thing; and John, bringing in the tea tray with the especially unpleasant Tesco Value variety tin of biscuits (deliberate snub, that, but it pleased John, which was, after all, important), caught the glance, and held his breath. 

But after a frown, Mycroft moved onto other matters. Matters still pertaining to John, it transpired. 

Mycroft sat back and tugged down the very slightly rumpled points of his waistcoat back into pleasing order. Sniffed disdainfully at a wafer biscuit, violent pink in hue. Put it back sorrowfully.

'A new mission for you, Doctor Watson. Something a bit different and a little longer this time. Starting later this week.

John frowned. 

'You know I won't take missions longer than three days? Because of - reasons. How long is this one?'

'Two weeks.' 

John went to interject : well, properly object, actually. 

A British Governmental hand was raised to forestall the objection. It was a mighty thing. Took John back to his childhood, watching "How" on ITV on a black and white telly. Wondered if that was where Mycroft acquired the habit......

'Hear me out, please, Doctor Watson.The operation is in an extremely inaccessible location, and the terrain is poor. It's a large-scale undertaking and the weather window is tight. We need every available intelligence medic that we have. There have been reports of torture, and of women and children being raped by rebel soldiers.'

John sighed. Unfair. This was just unfair. Moral blackmail.

'It's getting close to the baby's due date, Mycroft, and there are - issues. Has Abdullah been in contact with you?'

Sherlock, who had been sitting pensively in the corner, stiffened when he heard the fake name. He was about to try and derail the conversation, when Mycroft smoothly replied.

'Ah yes......"Abdullah".....'. He smiled serenely. 'He has indeed, John. He advises that you wish to progress from here on yourselves, without outside involvement, though with some advice.

'That's right', said John. He didn't actually want any outside advice from Abdullah or Mycroft, but knew he had to do everything possible to make this relationship safe. And be seen to be safe by those with the power to destroy it.

He pressed his advantage.

'So how is that going to happen, Mycroft, if I'm not here, and how is Sherlock going to cope? To eat? To not to get himself into trouble?'

'I am here, you know. And I'm not actually a child.' Sherlock spoke now, grouchy and irritated. 

'No. Of course, you're not.' John tried to sound calm. He nearly said 'Technically..', but realised that would be offensive, so sensibly omitted it.

'But neither have things been going smoothly for you. For us. Listen, I'm sorry Mycroft, I just don't think it's....'

Sherlock fidgeted.

'You should go, John. I'll be fine'

'But...'

'Really this is more important, John, even I can see that? I can box at Flanagans. Perhaps Abdullah will need to continue a little longer? It won't alter anything. Just defer it, you taking over. Saving lives? Isn't that what you do, what you live for?

And I will eat, I promise you. Mycroft can set up something with one of these food delivery companies. The ones that normally bring you diet food, all ready made. Or his chef could cook. Given my normal intake, if I eat what they bring, it will be more than I normally eat. How does that sound? Mycroft can check up.'

John looked closely at Sherlock but he didn't seem to be fibbing, he seemed quite genuine. And he didn't want to turn down the mission, not really; it went against the grain for him to do so. 

Also, as daily refresher fees increased in steps based on the mission length, two weeks would be very lucrative. All relative compared with Holmes wealth, of course, but the income gave John dignity and agency in this otherwise pretty co-dependent relationship. 

He didn't like the idea of Abdullah continuing the beatings, but didn't see any other option; and he had been genuinely comforted by the man's words and demeanour when they met at Bluebird. He sensed that whilst Abdullah might very easily fall in love with Sherlock, both of them did have the self control for that not to lead to infidelity, beyond the aspects John knew of. And John was confident that this physical aspect was the area, the only area, he needed to worry about on Sherlock's side. 

Not just because of Abdullah's assurances, in fact not that at all, but because of what Sherlock had done, the gift of complete trust he had given John, in their bed. Nothing could be so difficult for this man to do for another : there couldn't be any clearer symbol that for Sherlock, it was John, or it was nothing.

And he needed to get away, to have something other than the guilt eating him up, or the feeling of inadequacy in the face of Sherlock's resigned and fatalistic forgiveness. It was making him feel queasy, eating him inside. He needed to prove he could be a good person again, given that he now knew Sherlock loved him even when he wasn't.

John looked at Mycroft. 

'I'll do it. But this is the last one. After this, it's all baby focus. I'll be on "gay paternity leave" from any more missions, until well after the baby arrives.'

'This is very much appreciated, John. Lives will be saved by your decision. Here are your briefing notes. Please be ready at 5am on Friday. One of my cars will take you to Northolt.' 

He nodded at Sherlock, collected his umbrella, swiped the previously rejected wafer, and left. 

................

Sherlock didn't return to Pall Mall before John left, but he did fight another boxing match down in Catford.

This time it was against a much older opponent, Ricky Sanchez, a builder from New Cross. Mid thirties, heavily built. Not really a matched pair, he and Sherlock. So much so, Sherlock wondered if he'd been set up to put him off continuing? Whether "Mickey" Holmes might be behind it? Let the little brother have his fun, and then send him home with his tail between his legs.

Sanchez had a similar view of queers to Sherlock's previous opponent, but a very different fate in the match. He beat Sherlock, knocking him out. John was furious, having to spend the night on "Idiot concussion watch", when he'd much rather have been sleeping.

'Could you maybe find a hobby that doesn't actually involve your body being treated as a punchbag?'

Long stare. Clamped lips.

'Not at present.'

John knew he wasn't in a position to make rules at the moment. He backtracked.

'Okay, I just thought it was worth asking. As ideally, you know, I'd prefer not to be looking after a vegetable a few years down the line...' 

John the doctor didn't like this any of this one little bit. And he knew that as soon as he was out the door, Sherlock would be back off to Pall Mall to be beaten in the other manner Sherlock favoured. John didn't really want to think about that, because now he'd met "Abdullah", he could picture it, and those images were bloody hard to erase. 

But he'd made his choice to go on this mission, and he wasn't backing out once he'd given his word. His briefing pack was unpleasant reading, and just made him more certain that he had to go.

................

That night, for the first time since the desert tent calamities, and still frustrated by the boxing debacle, John tied Sherlock up, took out his belt, looped it, and thrashed Sherlock's backside. Fourteen stripes. One for each day John would be away and Sherlock might be seeking this elsewhere. By nine, Sherlock was sobbing with excitement and desire. By twelve he was barely whispering the number out loud, so that John had to adopt Captain Watson mode and roar at him. At fourteen, as he shouted out the number to John, Sherlock came over himself and the sheets. 

John rolled him away, scooped up the precious stuff and then rolled him back onto his front, using the fluid to work Sherlock open and then entering him steadily and with grim purpose. Sherlock arched back into the pleasure of it, complaining that John was 'too slow and lazy'. This met with a predictable response as well as a growl, and and he was soon being pounded relentlessly into the mattress. 

Just as he was about to come, John pulled out and let himself come all over Sherlocks back and buttocks, sliding his hand through the liquid and smearing it all over Sherlock's smooth, pale skin. Then he sank down on top of his lover's back and idly licked away some of his handiwork. 

The look of bliss and contentment on Sherlock's face was something John would have liked to have been able to capture and bottle and keep forever.

Then a shadow flickered across Sherlock's face.

' John. Don't leave me. Ever.' Sherlock sounded scared now.

John frowned sleepily.

'Why would I leave you? Idiot. I'm only away for a fortnight.'

'Just - don't....I can't do it, any of it, without you. Breathe. Eat. Live.'

'I know that, you madman. Now rest.'

John fell asleep quickly. Sherlock, the sheen of half-removed semen drying to a white flaky layer on his flesh, wondered if, like John's blood after the Barbican siege, he might be able to keep this part of John? He concluded not, somewhat regretfully. Instead, he reached for an empty headache tablet jar from the bedside table, and emptied a few stray flakes into it, concluding that he wouldn't tell John about it. 

John seemed to think things like that were a bit odd. Normal people were strange in that way. He pushed a stray strand of hair from John's face, and suddenly felt unaccountably sad.

 

.............

John left on a rainy Thursday night, a little over three weeks before the baby was due to be born. He would be back just over a week before due date. 

Sherlock came with him to Northolt, and they clung to each other silently under a large golf umbrella, wielded by one of Mycroft's silent minions, until a bad-tempered and probably homophobic superior army type came, and barked at John. 

John held Sherlock's elbow to stop him doing anything rash, and instead quickly kissed him goodbye and walked away onto the transport plane. The last thing Sherlock saw was John looking back and mouthing 'Love you, idiot' as he got into the plane. He meant to take a photo of John before he left. But he forgot. You do that, when it matters, sometimes. He took back with him to Baker Street, just the image of John's smile.

..................

 

The first three days of John's absence were fairly bearable. There were occasional short calls, plus updates via Mycroft, who had taken to turning up sans Anthea with a tray of food in containers prepared by his cook at Eaton Square. 

Although Sherlock ate little of it, it did give Mycroft the opportunity to ensure at least something went into his brother's stomach nutritionally, and using his own chef had the big advantage that everything was cut up to the required size and shape without him needing to ask. Asking meant acknowledging your distorted personality out loud, to others. Asking wasn't so good. Mycroft was as aware of that as John, though perhaps less sensitively attuned.

The two brothers enjoyed these occasions. Sherlock had grown used to having John by his side, and for the first time ever, had actually begun to feel lonely when alone. It was a trend that had started in his exile after the Fall when to associate with anyone could mean his betrayal and death, and had only grown since his return. So it was a help to have Mycroft to snipe at and reminisce, if only about safe topics and times.

Mycroft enjoyed the feeling of old times without the disapproving and suspicious eyes of Bad-Jumpered John darting suspiciously at him from the chair. There was Scrabble and Operation and some ancient horse racing game called Totopoly which Mycroft brought with him, the cardboard figures all bent and worn. Sherlock recognised it from his childhood, and it had been a period piece even then. Now, as grown men, Sherlock could read the names of the horses correctly. When he'd played it as barely more than a toddler, he'd been flummoxed by "Leonidas", named after the Spartan king. He remembered pronouncing it "Leeoh-needasss". He reminded Mycroft of this and his brother chuckled, transported back over thirty years to better, simpler times. 

Sherlock regarded Mycroft from under his eyelashes, as they played, assessing him. John, he knew, thought Mycroft was manipulative and had encouraged some of Sherlock's issues in order to keep him under his wing for so many years, partly in order to expunge his own guilt at not having been able to save his little brother from the abuse at the hands of his tutor. Sherlock thought that was probably true to some degree, but didn't condemn Mycroft for it, as John did.

There was the sordid side of course, too, the knowledge that John had that couldn't now be unknowed, that Mycroft harboured unconscious physical desires for his brother (even if only when deeply sleeping, and even though he had never laid a single finger upon his brothers body).

Mycroft for his part, Sherlock suspected, had great reservations about John Watson. 

Sherlock was right to suspect this. Not so much about John as a person; to Mycroft, John was a perfectly ordinary traumatised ex Army Doctor with little money and less dress sense and a chip on his shoulder as big as his sisters drinking habit. 

But concern about the combination of John's personality with Sherlock's. On many levels they were clearly parts of the same whole, making each other complete and happy, and yet....Mycroft feared that the missing parts of Sherlock's personality development, and the damaged and malformed parts of John's, were a toxic combination, capable of killing both of them.

It wasn't something he could protect either of them from. But it might, without intending it to, influence his later decisions. Decisions which came sooner than he might have expected, and which had a profound impact on his brother, and even more so, on John.

................

The rest of the first week; the later nights, when things started to be more of a struggle for him; Sherlock was absent from 221B, out in the evenings, either at Wasim's flat in Pall Mall, being beaten and stroked and embraced by that darling man: or else boxing, determined to avenge the defeat he'd suffered. And he did so, too, winning three straight bouts on successive nights.

Mycroft had him followed, of course, so he knew where he was; and left parcels of food for him in the kitchen of 221B. He was disappointed not to see him, and for them to eat together, but he knew Sherlock would only be going to Catford and Pall Mall if he was struggling; and Beef Stroganoff and conversation, and chess with Mycroft, however good his chef was, did not provide that same release.

The second week, Sherlock was again not in at Baker Street when Mycroft called, but he also seemed to have stopped the boxing and his visits to the prince...........Mycroft's surveillance feedback was that Sherlock was now walking the London streets at night, alone, covering ten or fifteen miles each time, doubling back and looping round, sometimes even walking the very same streets he'd done the previous night. 

There was no obvious pattern, other than Mycroft seemed to discern that Sherlock was following routes commonly used by himself and John together during cases. Walking to Scotland Yard. Walking to Angelos. To Barts. Walking to the zoo, to the Cenotaph, to the Chelsea Physic Garden, to the Temple Gardens. The Embankment and the Strand. And once, only once, to the Barbican, staring up for over twenty minutes at the flat where the two men almost died a year ago.

And he was muttering, Mycroft noticed. Talking to himself, out loud, alone, at night : just wandering and talking. 

Mycroft had wondered about his brother's mental health at many points in the past quarter century, in between the times when it was more than wondering, and now those unwelcome thoughts rose up once again to stick in his throat like acid reflux. 

Perhaps it was time to put a stop to Doctor Watson's adventures anyway? he thought. Perhaps he is needed more here, with Sherlock? A good thing, then, that this is his last trip. Time to come home, Doctor Watson.

........... 

 

Events overtook them all. 

They were bound to.

 

As Sherlock made his way past Marble Arch at 3am on the Thursday of the second week, exactly two weeks before the baby was due, a large black limousine drew alongside him. Water splashed from a drain cover onto Sherlock's trainers and the bottom of his Belstaff, and he scowled.

'Get in.'

'Why? I'm allowed to walk if I want? Go away, Mycroft.'

'Get in NOW, please, Sherlock.'

It was only when Sherlock entered the limousine and sat down opposite his brother that he saw the shuttered look on Mycroft's face. 

'I - John.....'

Sherlock looked hard at his brother's face. And understood what was unspoken. All of it. John. It could only be John. His world crashed.

'You fucking bastard!!!!' 

Within a few seconds, Sherlock's hands were tight round his brothers neck, crushing and compressing his windpipe. He meant it. He was trying to kill him. Properly kill him.

'You sent him out there, you bastard, and you....You.....'

But four powerful arms, too powerful even for his adrenalin fuelled limbs, were now gripping Sherlock and pulling him bodily off, and away from Mycroft. 

He'd known, then, thought Sherlock bitterly; Mycroft knew the reaction he'd get. So he'd come prepared, with hired muscle to defend him. He knew what he'd done, and he knew he deserved it.......

He disregarded the fact that he himself had also told John to go.......

Once Sherlock was restrained with handcuffs and fastened to the massive security man, spitting with fury, Mycroft spoke. His tone was grave but calm and measured, as always.

'Listen to me, Sherlock. Listen. I know you're upset. But you need to focus on what I am saying. Look at my face. Don't look away. Look at me.

John is not confirmed dead. 

His helicopter was winged by a rocket or missile of some kind. The chopper came down roughly, but it didn't head-on crash and it didn't blow up. There was extensive intrusive cabin damage but no fire. We're trying to establish the status of all of the twelve personnel on board. That's eleven plus John.

As soon as we can, if we can, we will also be getting a team in there to extract the survivors, should that be......relevant.'

Sherlock had gone totally quiet now, a complete contrast to a moment ago. Mycroft wasn't sure if he'd heard anything, but decided he must act as though he had.

He took Sherlock's hands and held them tight. 

'You're coming to Eaton Square. We need to make sure you eat, and are safe. You won't be left alone. We can't have a repeat of last time, no bathroom antics. No harming yourself, no drugs, no cutting. 

You will have someone in the room, and more people outside, every moment of every day until we find John or find out what happened to him. That includes when you go to the lavatory or have a bath. If you give me the slightest cause for concern about your intentions, I already have the paperwork here to have you forcibly sectioned to a secure psychiatric unit. I'd rather avoid that.

Sherlock, if John is still alive, we need to keep you alive for him. Do you understand that? And if he isn't...' 

Mycroft trailed off. He'd thought he had the speech all planned out, but when it came to it, there wasn't anything after that to say.

...................

They were at the house now, at once both dark and glowing in its stark lines and stuccoed luxury. Bay trees framed the large glossy black front door. A moth fluttered helplessly around the bright yellow lamp in its ornate cast iron stand.

Sherlock, still handcuffed, was led stumbling from the car to the entrance door, and into the house, past the hall security guard. Mycroft sat him on a hall chair, and knelt down and untied Sherlock's trainers, carefully unlacing them and then gently pulling them off. There was something biblical about the scene. He was put into the ground floor suite, and his guards were stationed inside and outside the room. A doctor materialised seemingly from nowhere, and before Sherlock could protest, injected him with some form of heavy sedative. 

As it started to take effect, he looked up at Mycroft with dulling eyes and mumbled something. 

Mycroft couldn't understand what he was saying, but he sat close by the bed and he wiped away the tear that rolled down Sherlock's cheek as the drugs took him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music:
> 
> Talk Talk  
> Life's What You Make It


	12. Of John, and of Sherlock....

When the missile, and it was a SAM all right, no doubt about it, hit the Lynx, they were just in the process of trying to take off. 

Slow, heavy with casualties and extra fuel, the weapon, fired by half trained assailants, thankfully only clipped one blade of one rotor. It was enough, though. The chopper reared up like a stallion, and just as quickly crashed down; in seconds transforming from millions of pounds worth of military hardware and a passport to safety; to a pile of crumpled scrap, and a potential coffin if those fuel drums or that fuel tank blew.

Nothing moved for a while. 

John Watson was one of the twelve souls on board. John Watson was alive. For now. He was strapped in near the back of the chopper with his three casualties on stretchers. Stunned for a while after the impact, lying at 45 degrees to the vertical, once conscious enough to make the effort, he called out hoarsely in the smoke. 

No reply. Nothing. 

Shit. 

Then he looked down and around, as best as he could with blood running down his face from a deep cut to his head. His arm was hurting like crap too, in fact that hurt the most, though he wasn't sure why.

He looked around him. 

Oh fuck. 

The front and middle of the 'copter had taken the worst of the damage. John wasn't able to be sure from where he was, but it didn't look at all good for anyone sitting there......which meant the six troops and two crew he'd come out with. He stared at the stretchers. One; the nearest to the outside, borderline before the crash, now showed no vital signs at all; a bashed in head from a metal rod that had pierced the cabin telling John all he needed to know. The other two, a male Six agent and a local woman. there was maybe hope for. So three alive in total, including himself, the rest probably not.

He tried to undo his seatbelt. The arm secured by it, his left arm, was ok, but the one he was mentally instructing to undo his belt was having none of it, screaming at him in white-hot agony everytime he tried to move it. Definitely broken. Possibly in several places? Bad breaks, really bad; the bone wasn't protruding but it was all over the place, crunching around. Fuck, it was agony. Glad it was his right hand, as he was left handed. But it was a big problem.

Then he found himself a bigger one. 

...................

Just then he heard voices. Not speaking English. Rebels, then, they must be? Today was not getting better. He quickly picked up the antibiotic purple spray from his med kit with his good left dominant hand and sprayed on the wall of the fuselage. He didn't have time to write much.

The men he could hear wildly shouting, and then there was a loud clanking noise as they prised open a small emergency door on the far side of the 'copter. 

They stared in. To be met by only one set of navy blue eyes, wide with shock and pain, blinking with the sudden torchlight shining in. John, now using his good hand to show his Red Cross on his uniform and the stethoscope round his neck, requesting the mercy due to an internationally recognised medic. Pointing at the stretchers. Pointing at his broken arm and the seatbelt and making a snipping gesture at the belt.

He knew he was going to be taken hostage. But that was, John thought, better than being left to die here with the dead bodies, it had to be. The rebels had checked all the other casualties and there was only John and the two stretcher cases alive, he gathered. It confirmed what he'd feared, and meant the guys he'd been chatting with minutes ago about their families, their children, their plans, were all gone, just like that. For a minute it took him straight back to Helmand and his last encounter with enemy action. 

He didn't have much time to dwell.

Suddenly, the seatbelt was cut with a disturbingly massive knife, more of a machete really, and John, gritting his teeth from the searing pain of his arm, was manhandled and dragged out of the chopper. He managed to grab his first aid kit with his good arm, but nothing else as he was manhandled towards a waiting jeep. He signalled back at the chopper, and tried to ask in signs about the other two men, the casualties who were stretcher bound?

The man he was asking just shrugged and shook his head. Then, a few moments later, he heard the sickening sound of two shots being fired inside the helicopter wreckage, and a moment later, one of the lead rebels emerging laughing and joking and making thumbs up signs. He looked almost drunk on it, the power of killing a man and a woman lying on stretchers.....

John staggered in his captors arms and without warning, spray-vomited on their shoes, making them furious. In punishment his broken arm was grabbed and squeezed hard by the gun toting murderer, and he was pushed to the ground. He didn't remember anything after that. Blackness was a welcome friend.

.....................

When he woke, it must have been many hours later, as it was getting dark. His mouth was full of dirt, and he spat out what he could, leaving his throat parched and sore.

His arm had been roughly splinted, very crudely, and he was handcuffed and chained by the feet, lying on a thin rug, on the floor, in some kind of wooden hut or cabin. It was cold, though the men who sat a few yards away on sofas and chairs, and drawn around a log fire, were probably much warmer than he. 

John's teeth started to chatter uncontrollably, partly due to the cold, but mainly due to the shock, of the crash, of the loss of life, and worst of all, of the treatment of the injured victims. He moaned piteously. One of his captors came over to him. Looking down at John's prone, groaning, figure. This one seemed to be the only one with any English to speak of. He was the man who had killed the men in the helicopter. John nicknamed him Albert. He wasn't sure why, his mind was wandering......

Albert wasn't pleased at John's moaning, but he hadn't come for that. He'd come to tell John something.

'We have your ID. We Google you, John Watson. We know about you. Your important friends. You and Sherlock Holmes. Brother of Mycroft Holmes, who has caused us very much trouble. Now you are in trouble so they are in so much trouble. Big trouble. Tonight you eat, and sleep. In the morning, we make nice holiday photos for your Holmes Brothers, and we will see what they will do to get you back safe.'

John tried to stay calm. He looked the man straight in the eye.

'They won't do anything. Their patriotism is more important to them than sentimental attachments to friends.'

'You better hope this is not so, John Watson. Also, I think you lie..... Not the older one, he is cold. But the other one, you like him, we know, you two, not just friends, I think? 

You do bad things together. Ungodly things. He will do much to get you back. Maybe anything we ask? See, we find photo. 

And they produced from John's wallet la photograph he'd taken of Sherlock. He wasn't smiling, but it was John's favourite as there weren't many photos, Sherlock was quite camera shy. In the image Sherlock was making a face. It was the face he made when he said something ridiculous, and John made a John face at him, and Sherlock did a look, a kind of 'I don't understand the human race, how is it possible that they do not operate on the level of Holmes and especially you, John.' 

That outraged, mystified, beautiful face that reflected the gulf between the world of Sherlock and the world of, well. The rest of the world. And now his kidnapper had it, and was gesturing that he was going to rip it up. The only link with Sherlock he had.

'Please. 

Please don't do that. Please give it back to me?' 

John realised he was already losing his last attempts at dignity, and was at their mercy. 

Of course they ripped it up. Of course they did. Because they could. Threw the fragments on the ground. From where John lay, he could see the pieces scattered, and it felt like it was himself. The pain from his shattered arm was so strong it was picking through his brain, closing down the parts that didn't directly deal with coping with the agony.

...............

John tried to stay focused and alert despite this. He didn't think it would matter what Sherlock could offer or not. They didn't seem to realise Sherlock was just the junior loose cannon of the family, anyway; not even permitted full control of his own trust fund monies, despite being of age fifteen years ago. And that Mycroft had other drivers than just fraternal sentiment guiding his actions. 

He prayed for a rescue, for anything to get him out of here and to a hospital. But John was an experienced soldier, and he knew it was really bloody risky, as any rescuers had to find him first, and get him out, without his murderous captors killing him, or them. 

And hardest of all, most unwelcome a thought to contemplate, but do so he now must; unless they did it pretty soon, he knew his broken arm wouldn't ever heal and the infection from it might kill him even if he was rescued. 

He didn't even know if they would come for him at all, once they knew it was just him. He knew how these things worked. Risk and reward. He wasn't much of a reward now he was alone. He considered the possibility, a strong possibility, that he would not be thought worth the potential costs in other human lives. His military brain accepted that; and all the time his human one screamed silently for it not to be the case.

The desperation and torment was only relieved when exhaustion and pain overwhelmed John, a short time later, and he fell into blessed unconsciousness again. Quiet returned.

 

....................

It was evening in Eaton Square. The long heavy curtains were drawn, and anyone walking along the wide York stone flagged pavement outside, would have supposed there might be a formal dinner, or perhaps a drinks party going on, judging by the number of luxury cars parked both in permitted and illegal spaces around the square. 

Though, had they looked closer, the cars seemed to be uniformly black, and the occupants less party goers than grizzled worried looking men and women in suits.

There were no cracks in the curtains, so none would know this, but the picture inside the house was more like a situation room at the White House than a light social occasion. All sorts of high tech comms and satellite equipment, along with language experts, military specialists and logistics experts, all grim faced and focused. 

And, of course, two brothers. One, the elder in so many ways, attempting to deal with the PR and political aspects of losing a chopper with British and American personnel on board, to a rebel army that had not been thought well armed enough to bring one down, but who was now gleefully parading images of the twisted wreckage on YouTube and sympathetic satellite TV channels.

The other, a younger, white-faced, gaunt man who had twice already today been forcibly escorted from the room by armed guards, who were there as much to protect the other personnel from him; as they were to protect the household from any outside threat. They had very detailed orders on that front. Protect him from himself, and others from him.

The footage of the wreckage did not give a definitive answer as to the fate of the occupants. Looking at the footage, it was safe to assume that there were at least some fatalities on impact, probably including the crew. 

But there was the footage itself, and clear evidence of a vehicle having reached the place. So someone had been there, outsiders, and they'd bothered to make and send the footage. Was it anything more than boasting?

Eventually, it was decided that a team, probably of SAS personnel or US Army SEALs, should be prepared to be sent in to investigate the wreckage, and recover any survivors. 

However, mindful of similar missions ending in massacres of the US rescuers, it was concluded that in this case, the UK would use their SAS commandos, as the British were regarded with a little less hostility in this part of the world. It was all relative though, neither nation was welcome, the British being seen as little more than puppets, with the US pulling the strings. And the mission would depend on evidence of the casualties, or at least a good number, being alive to be rescued. It shouldn't be a numbers game, but that was reality.

The night was spent assembling the teams and briefing them on the mission. 

Sherlock Holmes formally and quietly requested to join the team, and to take part in the extraction. 

Sherlock Holmes was formally and quietly officially refused permission by the British Government in the shape of Lady Smallwood and Mycroft Holmes to go anywhere within a mile of the mission. 

'Too invested.' 'Too volatile'. 'Not trained.' 'Unable to work in a team.' These were just some of the reasons quoted for the refusal, but there were many, many more;   
not least of which was the fact that Mycroft Holmes was not going to entertain the possibility for a moment, and had the nerve to say so. He saw no point in getting John Watson out and then finding that Sherlock had died in the attempt. All lives were valuable, but not equally so to Mycroft Holmes.

He made no secret of it, either. There was a heated argument, then. Blows were landed on the elder Holmes. Mycroft Holmes now sported a split lip and blood on his shirt, and Sherlock Holmes' bloodied hands were summarily cable-tied behind his back. 

Mycroft would have had him sedated, a lot less noisy and troublesome that way; but they'd had to use an elephant's dose to get him down the first time, such was his agitated state, and he wanted to avoid more so soon. Also, if news came in, good or bad, he knew Sherlock would never forgive him if he didn't know immediately. So he did the minimum he thought was necessary. For now.

........................

 

The discussions went on all night. By the early hours, Mycroft was waistcoat clad, his auburn hair sticking up at odd angles where he had fallen asleep briefly onto the table in front of him. Officials came and went, talking in low voices, phones to their ear or tapping away. 

Mrs G, the housekeeper, was kept fully occupied supplying the eight or nine personnel that always seemed to be around, with drinks and food. She'd asked an agency caterer to come in too. Not to directly deal with the people with Mycroft, they weren't security cleared for that of course; but just to bring in trays of sandwiches and cakes that she hadn't the time to make. They brought in the trays, she peeled off the cling film, and replaced the curled up predecessors on the huge dining table. The drained, dirty coffee cups just kept on cycling through the kitchen, the dishwasher working constantly, churning away. 

Sherlock had not slept. He did not speak to anyone. He did not look at anyone, and no one tried to make eye contact with him. They knew they were dealing with an unexploded bomb. He was taut with tension and fear. He did lie down for an hour, along a sofa, rigid and brittle, his arms still tied behind his back, his eyes looking paler than his skin, now. He looked hollowed out, like, a volcano that has breathed its last fiery anger and then collapsed into itself. 

It was hard to tell whether the next explosion would be an outward fireball or a slump into the ground.

..................

About seven am, the plane carrying the SAS team was deemed ready to leave. 

But about twenty minutes before they were due to take off, Mycroft was directed to his laptop by one of his aides. Sherlock saw the small movement, and also snapped to alertness, in a way that would have been thought impossible, seeing him just seconds before; and he staggered over to look. 

It was an email, but one using the email account for Mycroft that was on the card John carried in his wallet. Not a public email address, this one was given out only to those with upper levels of security clearance. It proved at the very least, that whoever was sending it had access to that item, or to John. Too much to hope that it was John himself, surely?

When Sherlock saw Mycroft hover over the title line and the fact there was a video attachment, he felt sick to the stomach. People didn't send videos after chopper crashes in hostile locations just to show you round the local night spots. He prayed it wouldn't be just gloating over corpses. 

He held his breath. 

Please, John? Please.....?

The footage was shaky and grainy. The security and military experts also had copies of the email, as Mycroft had immediately forwarded it, and they all pressed "Play" at the same moment. They agreed to stop the footage every ten seconds to review and agree the content. 

First ten seconds. The footage of the wreckage, exterior shots. Satellites had already given them this level of coverage. But this video then zoomed in to show the bodies of the pilot and flight engineer slumped across their instruments. So: both crew now presumed dead. Everyone was quiet for a moment out of respect.

The footage was stopped and various discussions went on about angles of descent, speed of impact and other technicalities, which almost drove Sherlock mad with fury and frustration. But there was little he could do but wait, given his bound hands and their power to remove him from the room. He breathed deeply. 

.................

Play. 

Now the camcorder or mobile phone was moved towards the downed chopper. First interior shot. If the assembled party in Mycroft's drawing room had been hoping for some good news, they did not find it here. 

There were a lot of bodies. A lot. 

The only sound in the room was the under-the-breath counting up of corpses, and one silent ashen man staring at the screen. It was unbearable, Sherlock thought. This is unbearable. 

I cannot bear it. 

It. Cannot. be.

The number was agreed. A nominated military officer read out loud the agreed conclusions. Including the crew, eleven bodies in the footage. Nine appeared to have died from impact injuries, one of whom was already stretcher-bound. 

But two other stretcher cases appeared to have been alive after the impact, and then shot in the head at point blank range. 

There was a small pained sound from the silent man. 

Keeping the note of calm deliberation in the room, Mycroft asked for the total number of personnel confirmed on the flight manifest.

'Twelve'. 

The disregarded, silent man stared at his feet. He didn't look as though he was breathing. He sank back down onto a chair, away from the laptop.

'Was it possible to speculate as to the identity of the missing twelfth passenger?'

Not with any certainty. All stretcher cases were accounted for. Both the crew. From seating positions and equipment the other bodies appeared to be regular troops, US and British. 

There was a missing medical kit. On that basis the most likely candidate was the flight medic, Agent Doctor John Watson, a former captain in the British Army.

There was also, the officer read out as the footage was restarted for the fifth or sixth segment, something sprayed with what might have been antiseptic spray from its colour, onto the wall of the grey fuselage. It was hard to make out.

'Let me look', the silent haggard man said, speaking at last. His voice was little more than a whisper. He staggered over to the table and to the laptop.

He came alive as he did so; stared intently at the footage, freezing it every frame in turn to see it, then using filters and technical trickery to improve the colour and contrast. 

Then he turned away, his eyes filled with tears. 

He wrote down on a piece of paper some words, and silently handed it to Mycroft.

Mycroft opened it, and read it out.

"Because I chose you."

Puzzled looks all round. But Mycroft saw Sherlock turn away, tears falling from the corners of his eyes. The cable ties meant he couldn't hide them or wipe them away. Sherlock walked to the corner of the room, facing the wall. He had no privacy. Turning his back was all he was granted.

Mycroft walked over to Sherlock, and, turning him, placed his hands on his brother's shoulders, looking him in the eyes, with a look of filial compassion and deep abiding love.

'Sherlock, please tell me, what does those words mean?'

Sherlock looked at him with an expression that would never afterwards leave Mycroft's memory, so searing it was into his eyes, and his brother spoke as if his heart would break in two, just with the effort of speaking the words out loud.

'It's what I told John. Before he went. There were some..... misjudged actions, about which, Mycroft, you will not be enquiring further. Anyway, he asked me why I.......' 

He stopped, fumbling for the words. He wasn't going to say "Hey guys, he asked me why I performed my first voluntary blowjob for someone since I was raped at the age of eleven."

Instead he continued...

'.....Why I stayed with him, forgave him, wanted him, loved him? That's what I told him. 'Because I chose you'. 

And now he's saying it back. Or said it back. There's blood on the seat. He's been injured. Or - he wrote it, and then they got him, and then they killed him too.'

Sherlock barely finished speaking before he slumped to the floor. He hit it hard, not having any arms free to break his fall. He was lucky not to hit his head. The guards pulled him back up into a chair and held him there. They were probably all that was keeping him upright now. 

He barely heard the discussion, impersonal, objective, all the things he could never be, going on above and around him.

'But if he was killed, shot, where is his body?'

'Could be outside the chopper on the side we haven't seen?' 

'He wasn't on the video. Why not? Either to show him dead or display him as a hostage?'

There was no consensus on the fate of Agent Watson. 

Then there was quiet, and they all sat there for a while. The footage had abruptly stopped and there was no more information. 

.....................

The team were ready to take off now. All set. Briefed and ready. But on hold.

Mycroft now had to decide, based on the new intelligence, whether to go ahead and to deploy them. They had been going in, to get up to twelve, or more likely ten, hostages out, and that was the extent of the mandate granted. Now, the scenario was very, very, different. Eleven out of twelve confirmed dead. Two of those murdered in cold blood. The one remaining, missing, certainly injured, possibly dead. 

This was a different proposition to going in and getting ten or twelve lives out. 

Did he send a team in, at great risk to the six crew, in order to rescue one, possibly already dead, ex-army doctor of limited strategic value but massive personal significance to a member of his family.

Mycroft felt sick.

He couldn't do it. 

He couldn't justify it. 

In terms of risk, and resources, and political and military fallout. Not for an outside chance that a single individual of no political value was alive. It just wasn't a decision that could stack up. He wouldn't get it past his political masters: it would make them look too bad when, as was likely, the mission encountered problems, or found nothing but a rotting corpse. It would look like they'd launched the mission for his family's private reasons. 

This wasn't a Hollywood movie.

After around fifteen minutes of thinking it through, how it might be made to look better, a more rational judgement, anything, anything at all: and finding nothing but dead ends, Mycroft finally put down his papers and his glass of whisky, got up from his chair, and signalled to the guards a pre-arranged set of signs. 

They gripped Sherlock suddenly from behind, and swiftly supplemented the cable ties with police handcuffs. 

Sherlock looked around in shock, confused as to what was going on. Then he saw Mycroft advancing towards him. 

'Sherlock, I'm sorry but......'

Mycroft still advancing. Sherlock cowering back now. Looking terrified. Pleading.

'No. No. Just no, Mycroft....please no.'

Sherlocks eyes were wild and filled with tears.

'We can't do it, Sherlock. Send in another six to be killed on the off-chance that John is still alive? Even supposing he was, getting him out without his captors killing him is unlikely. 

I'm sorry. I'm standing the team down. They're not going in. Not without credible intelligence that John is alive.'

Mycroft turned away, his expression grave. He knew what this meant. Not just for John, but Sherlock too.

'You're not leaving him there! He's alive, Mycroft. You saw it. You saw the message. His kit is missing. He left a note. He's alive. You can't abandon him. He isn't a FUCKING DOG, Myc. You sent him in there! You bastard! Get him OUT!'

The voice was at first screaming and then breaking.

The needle slipped into his arm but Sherlock seemed to have barely noticed. He was still ranting and raving and screaming when he was dragged away by the guards. This time, the dose was for a full knock out. They couldn't take any chances.

..............

Mycroft wiped his handkerchief over his face. Over his eyes, too, which had become strangely wet. He felt terrible at leaving John out there, but it would have needed concrete proof that he was alive, to justify a case for going in. They just didn't have that.

He had no idea what he was going to do about Sherlock now. John gone, and the baby due in a week or so; the timing couldn't have been worse; and the plan of keeping Sherlock stable before the baby came was shot to pieces. It was quite likely that his brother would need to be placed in a secure unit, and miss his baby being born. Possibly even miss John's funeral or memorial service, should it come to that. He shook his head, and picked up the phone. He was there for an hour, talking to Anthea, 'Alicia' and various other involved parties. 

Finally, he rose and went to his brother's room. Standing at the end of the bed, he looked down on his pale, tear stained cheeks and rigid, drug-frozen limbs cuffed to the bed. He sat down heavily on a chair and put his head in his hands. 

He knew this was the end for his relationship with his brother. If and when John Watson's body turned up, he didn't expect Sherlock to maintain further contact with him.

When Mycroft quietly left, an hour later, feeling like a relative standing duty over a coffin the night before the funeral, Sherlock remained exactly as he had been. Still, prone, lifeless, all anger and passion spent, like a stone carved tomb effigy of a medieval knight in a quiet country church.

........................

A few hours later, the guard inside Sherlocks room slipped into the en-suite to answer the call of nature. There was a guard outside the door of the room, too. And Sherlock was still asleep. All secure.

It was a surprise then, to them, that sound they heard a few seconds later; the one of the thud of a window pane falling, of an alarm going off; and it made the external guard rush in, to find an empty bed and a missing window pane. 

The glass wasn't breakable, being bullet proof. But Mycroft, who had been dozing in his study, and rushed in shortly afterwards, realised that all their reliance on muscle power to guard Sherlock from escaping through the doors and on the alarm systems and special glass, had neglected to continuously check the weak points. In this case, the putty around the window panes. Sherlock hadnt broken the glass. He'd spent hours, chipping away at the surrounding seal, so that in the end, he'd just prised the thing right out. Then apparently used the glass edge to break the cable ties to free his hands. How he'd defied the full effects of the drug dosage they had no idea. Perhaps his tolerance was just so high by now and they'd underestimated.

Mycroft sent a search party out. He'd as good as declared John to be lost, and when that had been close to happening in the past, he'd had a very strong suspicion of what action Sherlock would take in response. He hoped, if they didn't catch him quickly, that he would choose drugs rather than something more instant like a gun or rope or knife. At least with the drugs they might get more time; if they found him in time. 

After two or three hours, the search party of twenty returned with tired feet and frustrated faces. They hadn't found him. No trace, despite searching all the usual bolt-holes, questioning contacts, everything.

Mycroft was trying to decide what to do next. He racked his brains for possible hiding places they hadn't already searched. But then he stopped. He realised this was fruitless, and pointless, in the end. There was no point in chasing Sherlock all over the country, trying to stop him doing this. If they saved him this time, it would be the next time, or the time after that. Unless John came home, which he wasn't going to this time, Sherlock would find a way to kill himself. 

Wearily, he told the search teams to stand down, and that they wouldn't be required to undertake any further shifts. 

Instead, he rang Greg Lestrade, who listened carefully to all Mycroft had to say and then agreed to identify Sherlock on a non-publicised basis as a vulnerable missing person with potential mental health issues and suicide risk. Also officers were to be warned that he might be violent if confronted. If he were found, alive, the plan was to have M16 doctors section him for a period, under the Mental Health Act, both for his own protection, and also for Mycroft's personal protection.

Mycroft spoke to Molly too. She was expecting a baby with Greg in a few months, and was even more emotional than normal, especially when she heard the news about John and Sherlock. 

'Where do you think he would go, Mycroft? I mean, to do something like that. Something awful. Something terrible?'

'I don't know Molly. This time, we're not searching. I'm very clear on that. He doesn't want to go on without John. I've overheard him and he's very specific about it. And I can offer no consolation to him on that, not only because he blames me for what has happened, but because I think he's right. I don't think he can cope without him. And that might be unhealthily dependent of him, especially as John has certain issues that can endanger Sherlock sometimes, not just vice versa, but it's just the bloody inconvenient truth. 

So I don't know where he would go, but I am going to wait, and hope that I am wrong, and that I won't get a phone call to identify his body. Hope he gets picked up somewhere.'

Molly cried then, and couldn't say anything else, handing the phone back to Greg. 

'We'll let you know if we find him. It's not the way I wanted this to end, Mycroft, after all the times, all the....'

'I'm aware, Greg. Thankyou.'

'Are you alright, Mycroft. Would you like Molly and I to come over?'

'Thank you, but I will be fine. I have the housekeeper here, and there is much work. But: thankyou.'

'No problem, take care.'

With that, Greg and Molly rang off, and the room fell quiet. 

..................

Mycroft steepled his fingers. He sat there for a while, feeling wretched and hollow.

Then he picked up his phone again. Rang a number. He'd heeded political diktats to deny Watson a rescue mission, and he felt crushed and exhausted. So now he was ignoring protocol just for a little while, for a few precious stolen hours. 

Two hours later he was propped up in a large bed, in a certain flat in Pall Mall, with a loving warm honey coloured body beside him. He hadn't wanted to be alone, and Wasim, on hearing what Mycroft had to say, had insisted he came over straight away.

He hadn't come for sex, though it had to be admitted they had embarked on that about twenty seconds after Mycroft got out of the lift, and the trail of clothes from the lift to the bed they now occupied, told its own tale. 

This time there was no fighting for a turn at domination. Wasim sensed that Mycroft needed to work off the grief and frustration of pressures he could only imagine, and willingly took everything the desperate man above him could hand out. Which was a lot, this day.

But although the bruises and the wounds and the anger release were important, Wasim knew that Mycroft came also for the warmth and comfort of another human being, their body, their love, their concern and care. After the darker part was over, and Wasim's bruised body and open wounds were attended to, they lay together, clinging on as if they could not ever be parted. Wishing that they were not. Mycroft felt a kind of redemption at this contact with his lover.

They awoke later, much later, and drank tea and ate sweet pastries, uncaring about the crumbs. It was precious, and they both knew it was a rare prize, to be here, like this, for a short time.

Mycroft hadn't told Wasim much about the crisis before he rushed over; just that John was missing and Sherlock had run off. Now he told him a fuller story, as much as he could do, anyway. 

The prince was distraught. Couldn't believe it. He was devastated, and clearly disbelieving that Sherlock, after all their efforts, had disappeared after getting the worst possible news, away to do, well, who knew what, to himself.

And then he raised the subject no one had yet raised. 

'Mycroft. What about the child? Sherlock's son? If neither of them come home? What will become of him? '

Mycroft said nothing in response, but clung to Wasim as if his life depended on it, shaking with unuttered sobs, the prince pressing kisses to him and comforting him as best as he could. 

Mycroft's phone sat alone and muted on the low table beside the bed, as they reached for each other, and shuddered and touched their way to forgetting the rest of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music:
> 
> Fleetwood Mac  
> The Chain


	13. Project Holmes......and John....

When morning broke, John awoke, in pain and hunger, to several realisations. 

One. He was still a prisoner.  
Two. His broken arm was now looking, and smelling, definitely infected. Localised at the moment, but it was only a matter of time before it spread and deepened.  
Three. It occurred to John that no one had fed him yet. He wondered if they planned to, or if they thought it was funny to eat in front of him and starve him to death.  
Four. Despite the lack of food and the small amount of water he'd been given, he really did need the toilet urgently.

He called the nearest guard, the one who spoke some English. Albert. "Albert the murderer", as John had now rechristened him. He had memorised every single inch of the hated man's face, so that if and when he ever got out of here, he would personally ensure, through legal or illicit means, that he got every single one of his dues. Which might be, of course, John knew, why Albert made sure that was never the case.

'I need food. And toilet.' John spoke with authority he lacked inside.

The guard sneered at him, but went away, and came back with a blindfold. John's heart sank. The thing was fastened around his eyes and then he was led, stumbling, held by his one good arm, out of the hut. He didn't want to deal with his needs in front of them but it was clear he had no choice. It wasn't so bad pissing, but taking a shit in front of others really wasn't ideal. Not when you felt as ill as John did. There was little to use afterwards but leaves, so he did his best with those. Not easy with one hand. He wasn't given a chance to wash the hand either. 

And he was watched. All the time, he was watched. Every second. Even in the army he'd had more dignity than this. He tried to stop thinking dark thoughts, but they crept in with the waves of cramps and the pain. 

Once he had finished he was led back in, the blindfold removed and he was given a small piece of some kind of rusk and some dried meat. He used a rag to try to avoid touching the food with his hand. His hands shook uncontrollably, as he tried to eat, so he lay down now, resting his good arm on the ground, clamping it with his body weight, so that he could limit the shaking and get the morsel to his mouth. The dryness of it stuck in his throat, and he choked. Eventually, a canteen of water was thumped down next to him. He drank it dry, and it was snatched away again. It wasn't refilled.

He wasn't left alone for long. 

Albert came back in with a camera phone and something else. John tried to see what was going on. He couldn't move much because of his arm.

It was a newspaper. A local one, but today's date. God knows how they'd managed to find one of those, and it wouldn't convince anyway, it could be photoshopped so easily these days. But these guys weren't pros, so they were doing it the classic way. And the topicality of the headlines was harder to fake.

The other men came in, and sat out of camera shot, but throwing in suggestions. 

Albert started filming. 

.................

Back in grey and windswept London, Mycroft Holmes was by now back at home, at Eaton Square, revived somewhat by his sojourn with Wasim, ('do you have to leave? Stay?' dark eyes and renewed hunger; then staying until the last possible moment), and eating a depressingly healthy and meagre breakfast of what looked like compost or rabbit food, while getting the latest updates from Anthea; when his phone rang. 

The name flashed up on the screen: Mummy Holmes. Sherlock had got hold of the phone at one point and changed the number into an icon of a monster chasing several small creatures running along the screen squeaking, and Mycroft hadn't worked out how to change it back. 

Damn it. He had tried to keep the chopper crash reports as vague as possible in the press, and hadn't wanted to worry his parents so hadn't told them anything at all; but if ever there was a woman less likely to have Mycroft wool pulled over her eyes, it was Mummy. 

He thought about ignoring the "monster" but knew there was no escape. He sighed, and picked up the call, the squeaks of the monster victims ceasing as he did so...

'Mycroft. Good morning.'

Her voice was crisp and brisk. Never, ever, a good sign. Mycroft could imagine her bright blue eyes boring into him.....

'Good morning to you, Mummy. How is Father? Ticker still tocking, hopefully?'

'Your father's heart is just fine, Mycroft. He is strimming the lawn edges out by the tennis court presently. And swearing, as he keeps finding lost balls too late to save them from the strimmer. It's one with the flail blades, not the plastic cord. I think he would be safer with the cord model but he says it snaps all the time.....

However, Daddy's health and proficiency with minor garden machinery is not, as you very well know, why I rang. How is Sherlock? Is he with you? Is he at Baker Street?'

Mycroft sighed. Mummy never asked questions she didn't know the answer to. Never. It was a game, then.

'Your tone suggests, unlike your words, Mother dear, that you know perfectly well, that he is currently present at neither of these places. Please state the nature of your enquiry. I really am quite busy.'

'Mycroft. Stop dissembling. The helicopter crash. In that forest. Twelve on board. Eleven dead. One missing. Was John Watson on that aircraft, by any chance?'

How did this woman even know. How? How? Mycroft groaned a silent internal groan.

'Yes, Mummy. He was.'

'Was he among the eleven confirmed fatalities?'

'No, Mother. He is the missing twelfth person.' 

'No wonder you are busy, then, Myc. Good. When is the extraction operation?' 

There it was. 

'There is not going to be one, Mummy. 

We have no evidence he's still alive. There was a scrawled note and his medic kit is missing, but the video footage didn't show the other side of the chopper where his body is likely to be. Plus there won't be clearance to risk six more men to get just one out.'

'I see.'

Mummy Holmes didn't sound as if she 'saw' at all. Displeased. Mycroft sighed.

'I did actually check, Mummy, that the government won't sanction it. This isn't a unilateral sacrifice of the good doctor, you know? Despite my concerns about him in relation to Sherlock, which I know you are AWARE of and probably share, I am not actually heartless enough to take this decision myself...'

Mummy Holmes now had her turn at sighing. 

'And I assume Sherlock was told of this decision, which is why he has presumably absconded and disappeared off the face of the planet, and probably off his own face too, yet again?'

Tiny bit heartless, Mummy, that summary. True, but just...oh, well....it makes no odds now.

'Yes, that is correct.'

'What are the teams searching for him telling you, then?'

Now Mycroft was in a corner, with no Government back-up to hide behind as he'd had for the call on whether to send in the troops for John. This one, this decision on Sherlock, had been all his own call.

'There are no teams searching, Mummy. I started them off, but then called it off after a few hours.' 

'What? Why on earth would you do that?'

Mycroft bristled. All the tension that had been smoothed away by Wasim was right back and all the emotion and anxiety flooded through him. 

'Because, Mother, you know as well as I do that John's death WILL lead to Sherlock taking his own life, now or the next time, and I've finally come to terms with that fact. Finding him and dragging him back here is only going to defer the inevitable. At least this way he has some agency and power over its manner and timing. 

And because, Mother, I can't take it any more. Not again. The hatred and the blame. Him screaming at me about how much he hates me, about how much he wants to die. About how all of it, everything is my fault. He's killing me. 

All I want to do is to protect him. And he hates me. And now he hates me more than he ever has, and I've just reached the end with it. I've had enough. I want him to do what he wants, and if he doesn't want to be without John, and I can't get him John back, then this time I want him to succeed. I want him to die. But I don't want to watch him do it. 

I just can't do it.

I don't know, not any more.'

Mycroft was not crying, or shaking, or any normal expression of torment, because he was Mycroft, but his face was white and his muscles clenched, and his whole body spoke of the pain of someone who was finally broken, by caring for someone who was impossible to help, or cure, or love, without in the process themselves being destroyed.

Mummy Holmes paused for a long while. Judging what approach to take. She was not a heartless woman, but nor was she demonstrably affectionate to her children. She regarded them as mathematical problems. Each situation had a solution. Sometimes several, but there was always an optimum one. She was not used to hearing Mycroft like this, and probably hadn't heard him so highly strung and angry since the last time Gregory Lestrade had scraped up Sherlock from an alleyway, the time when Gregory had told Mycroft he'd had to physically pull off the drug dealer still fucking her unconscious son. 

Mycroft was clearly, and very unusually, in despair. But he still wouldn't want to be called a quitter, she thought. Right then. Cruel to be kind. Shock him into action.

Then said.

'I didn't take you for a coward, Mycroft. You've been Sherlock's stabiliser for so long, for you to give up on him now seems quite perverse.

In any case, it's quite inappropriate. That boy has a child about to be born, and he needs to be here to see it. I suggest you revisit your decision, if you want to avoid me going over your head.'

Mycroft gasped. 

'You wouldn't.'

'Try me, Mycroft. You just told me you've left a man out there, God knows where, to die; the man your brother loves. And now you're leaving him, your own brother, to die alone too? Read that sentence back to yourself, Mike, and reflect. That is not who I brought you up to be, a quitter and a coward? 

If you can't get an official mission passed, we organise a private one. We have the resources, with help from certain quarters. If Sherlock is suicidal, which I imagine he is, he normally is, let's be honest; we find him, section him to somewhere properly secure, and keep him alive long enough to see his child, and hope that is enough to sustain him. 

If it isn't, then at least they will have met before.....Which is very important. To Daddy and I, and, I hope, to Sherlock. 

I don't pretend we will be able to save him long term, if John is gone; but I still want the short term, Mycroft, even if it's only for him to see the baby, and for us to see him again, to say our goodbyes. I don't want him dying alone. 

He is our son. I want you to get him back.

Reflect on what I have said, Mycroft. Daddy and I are going to the garden centre this morning, as he wants to get a new yellow damask rose to replace the one down by the Dower house. It's never been the same since that new lad of the gardeners got too close to it with the ride-on mower. He blamed the sticky throttle but I think he was texting and you know how boys are with multi-tasking. Your father's just the same. Reading the cricket scores and trying to skim the gravy, and next thing you know, there's grease all over the Aubusson and gravy on his nice Farah slacks.

But we will be back after lunch, and I expect News, Mike. News.'

.................

Outplayed. One nil to Mummy.

'I understand, Mummy.' 

Mycroft sounded subdued and chastened. Mummy was the only person who could dress him down like that, and live. 

They said their goodbyes in a clipped and formal manner, and Mycroft stood looking at the phone long after the call was disconnected. 

He didn't want to save Sherlock just to say goodbye to him. If he was going to find him, he needed John Watson to give Sherlock something to live for. He knew the baby wasn't enough. 

It had to be John.

....................

 

It was long moments before he picked up the phone to Greg Lestrade. 

'Gregory. How are you and the lovely Molly? 

'Good, good thanks, Molly's doing well now. What can I do you for?

Gregory. There is a change of plan regarding Sherlock. We are moving to a more active phase. Going public. An appeal, posters, internet, the whole lot.'

'OK. No problem. But why the change of mind?'

'I have been persuaded that it would be beneficial to find Sherlock, if he is still alive, in order to meet his baby, when he or she is born. Even if that is all we achieve. But we are also going in to try to retrieve John Watson from his current situation.'

Not giving the sex of the baby away this time.

'Well you know, adults go missing all the time and we don't usually do much when it's clearly voluntary....'

Mycroft tried to interject but before he could, Greg was continuing,

'......but in light of the categorisation of Sherlock as vulnerable from a mental health perspective and also being at risk of suicide, we will take a different approach. I'll get onto it. I just hope he's still in London. If he's on the drugs he's more likely to be here, but if he's looking for somewhere to off himself it could be bloody anywhere.'

'Quite so.' Mycroft winced slightly at Greg's choice of words, but he knew that the policeman dealt with these sorts of tragedies daily, and gallows humour and slang were one of the best ways to deal with it.

'Thank you, Gregory. It is most appreciated.'

'Not at all. And, - Mycroft?'

'Yes?'

'I hope we bloody find him. And that you manage to get John back alive.'

'So do I, Gregory. So do I.'

...............

 

It was raining in the forest, so the rebels decided to film inside this time. In his cabin prison, still shackled, John was told to look straight into the camera lens, and to read from the writing on a piece of cardboard he'd been given. 

He looked down. Set his jaw. Looked defiantly into the camera with hard flinty blue eyes, and began to read slowly and carefully.

"My name is Doctor John Hamish Watson. 

I am the only survivor of the infidel enemy aircraft that was miraculously destroyed by the righteous forces of the Liberation Army.' 

(Pause for ironic effect, what was this utter shite he was reading? He'd never even heard of the LIberation Army. It reminded him of the Monty Python film 'Life of Brian', and the squabbling variations on the "Peoples Popular Front of Judea"....then he was kicked in the side by someone off-camera, making him gasp, and that reminded that this wasn't a satirical comedy film, but possibly the last time anyone would see him alive).

'I am here as the guest (slight choke here, since his handcuffs and chains were clearly visible) of the Liberation Army and am being treated......very well." 

When he said these words, John stopped reading from the card and said them with emphasis, to camera face on. A haggard, pain lined face that showed in small expressions and narrowness of gaze and of lips, that his truth bore no relation to these words.

"The price for my release is"......

At this John stopped. He'd read ahead now, and his heart sank. There was not a chance in hell of these, any of these, conditions being met. That was that, then. Pretty much.

".....is the release of all Liberation Front fighters currently being held, an amnesty for all currently sought Fighters, and the withdrawal of all international peacekeeping troops out of the territory.

Failure to comply with these demands within 72 hours from midnight UK time tonight will result in my summary execution."

(Pause)

(Swallow hard)

"In addition, failure to show meaningful progress to meeting these demands within the next 12 hours will result in severe punishment consequences. 

As you can see..." John was signalled to hold up his broken arm, but he could move it very little and shouted with pain even at that...."I am not in a state to tolerate a great deal of physical punishment."

(Voice trailed off to a whisper)

"Please make sure these demands are met in full, if you wish to see John Watson alive again."

With that, and without warning, John was physically kicked out of the picture and one of the fighters, his face obscured by a tightly wound scarf, came and turned off the camera. 

....................

 

Mycroft received a telephone call, and also an email later that day. 

Well, he received lots of both, of course, like every day; but these were the two he remembered, later. When the heat and light had faded to calm. 

The first, was a call from 'Alicia's' husband. His wife was now in the early stages of labour. He sounded nervous but excited. He was also happy, since he'd just been promoted unexpectedly at work. Mycroft already knew about that second part, of course, but listened politely. It had taken a little time to arrange in order to ensure the man wasn't aware that there was anything more to his recent elevation than his natural talents. Clearly, they had succeeded totally.

The second, was the video message forwarded by John Watson's captors, proving definitively for the first time that John was indeed alive, but badly injured: but also confirming that there was precisely zero chance of meeting the captors' ridiculous demands.

However the video was useful. 

The foolish men had filmed it inside. From clues in the film it was possible to establish the timezone from the sun's position outside the windows, the area the local paper used for date evidence showed they were in, and the size and rough terrain of the cabin, as well as its construction. The rough track running to the cabin, visible out of the window in one brief shot, was unmetalled but unusually well constructed. Forestry, then. It could only be forestry. And of course they knew the rough area, because the satellites had told them that.

And Mycroft thought he heard the roar of water in the poor quality video soundtrack too. Not just a river, and definitely not a stream. More like.....a waterfall? 

His experts were onto it. But Mycroft needed to be somewhere else now. He texted his mother to tell her where he was going. She replied, somewhat cryptically, something about being pleased but that he should 'not be getting too involved'. He texted back to say he wasn't 'involved', and that she should stop meddling.....

................

All this email traffic, and yet there was no email, call, or message from, or about, the person to whom these two communications would mean the most in the world. 

He had disappeared, it seemed, without a trace. Ignoring the birth of his first and probably only child, and believing his lover to be dead. He took with him no phone, no money, barely any clothes : and no hope.

Mycroft, having set his men onto analysing the video message, collected his personal effects and set out for the maternity unit at Baths RUH hospital. It looks as though he was going to get closer to a Holmes baby's birth than he'd ever thought possible, when he was given the crushing news about his own fertility. 

The thought of this child being born sent a red hot poker through his heart. He couldn't believe that the baby was actually going to arrive, a baby that was related to him, and was part of Sherlock. Sherlock......William....Lockie...... Bee. 

All those names, and all that love and care and protection, and it still wasn't enough. Never enough. 

Mycroft didn't know if his brother was alive or dead? Whether he would ever know he had a son? Would ever meet him? Mycroft decided that, whatever happened, he would protect this child with his life. He already loved it with a fierce passion, and it wasn't even born yet. Soon, soon though. Soon he would come.

He picked up his umbrella, walked out to the car, and greeted Anthea who was waiting patiently in the back seat. She smiled broadly. This was a proud moment. The car swung slowly out into the traffic, heading for the hospital.

................

John Watson, unaware of being the topic of so much snippy Holmes family discussion, was shivering now. He knew that wasn't a good sign, since it wasn't a cold day. He also had stomach cramps, struggling to breathe in between them, and diahorrea, which didn't make him popular with his captors, who disliked taking him out for toilet breaks and made that very clear to him. It would be best not to describe in detail the ways they made that clear. Wouldn't help John at this stage to speak it out loud, in this narrative....

He tried to pass the time, and forget the pain, and the humiliation, at least a little; by working his way through his memories of his time spent with Sherlock. He went through the cases first, and those helped. From A Study in Pink, right through them all to the very last case, if you could call it a case; the fatal showdown with Magnusson. 

The look on Sherlock's face at the point of fulfilling Sally's prediction about him, and horror on his own, at fearing losing Sherlock, for good, a second time.

It wasn't all bad, thinking back. 

He enjoyed especially remembering the moments when others had bullied or belittled Sherlock, and he had stood up for him. To Sally, to the Chief Superintendant, to Mycroft. Of being rescued by Sherlock, at the pool, and pulled out of the bonfire. Of meals at Angelos where John shovelled in tagliatelle, and Sherlock ate nothing except what he stole from John's plate. Tea with Mrs Hudson. Laughing in alleyways and dockyards and palaces and the hallway of 221B. Peering into the fridge and picking up something which was not perhaps what he had initially thought or hoped it was. Trying to put it back without Oozing Matter escaping. 

Then his mind, by now beginning to wander feverishly, strayed into much more personal territory in his memories. That first shy touch. The first soft feather-like kiss. The first time he had seen Sherlock properly, fully, beautifully nude. Had touched him there, and just there, and here, and made him hiss and keen. Had been miraculously, extraordinarily, inside him. Had Sherlock, just as amazingly, in him. How was any of that even real?

His sleeping form, long and graceful and perfect, presented on rumpled sheets after a long night of rough sex, laid out like a gift from heaven. His look of utter debauched pleading pleasure when restrained and kept waiting for absolutely hours by John, waiting for his command; waiting to let go. The blissful look on his face when John did tell him to come now, come now for him, and Sherlock crashed into orgasm like no-one else 'Three Continents' John had ever known. His delighted aroused face when John called him his "good lad".

He shivered. Normally such thoughts would bring a predictable reaction from his own hungry loins. His sex drive was as impressive, even at his age, as his much admired and complimented cock.

But not now. 

These memories now felt now like faded sepia photographs of someone else's life; someone who was blessed and loved and so very lucky. And who had squandered it. He felt like someone finding the photographs, coming across them by chance, and wondering who that lucky blighter had been, and hoping they'd been sensible enough to appreciate what they had?

'No', thought John. 'I did not appreciate what I had and I had no sense. I wanted everything to be perfect. For him to be mine alone, and completely. For him to be ordinary. Undamaged. Complete. 

Even while I told him it was OK that he was different. It was just lip service. I still expected him to be perfect. And when he wasn't, I was just like all the other men who've used him.

And now I know. Now I really fucking know, that him as he was, even if I had to let others in a bit; even the chipped and damaged him was good enough for the chipped and damaged me, and I should have known that. 

Why does it matter if he needed to go and bash people in a boxing ring? Why does it matter if he needs someone to thrash him to get his mind to let him rest? It doesn't fucking matter. All that mattered was that he was finally trying to cope with the stuff he'd never coped with before, and to keep me away from the pain he was in while trying to do it.

And why, God. Why. Why do I only know that now, when it's too fucking late to tell him?'

It all seemed such little details now, the things they had fought about; the things he had assaulted Sherlock for.....assaulted a man whose whole foundation of sexual experience was assault after assault, day after day. 

Tears flowed again, freely now. He couldn't wipe his face, he had nothing with which to wipe it. So they dropped down and ran down onto his legs and the ground. They itched and tickled until they dried; and his inability even to cure that small irritation, was as frustrating and debilitating as the fact that his arm was pure fire and agony and he knew its days, and his life too, through it, were numbered by its dreadful condition. He didn't even look at it now. The problem with being a doctor was that it was much harder to kid yourself. He felt maybe he deserved this fate.

..............

John didn't know how Sherlock might have reacted to his disappearance. But he knew it probably wasn't good. He tried not to think about it too much, how he would be coping.

However he did have confidence that Mycroft would ensure Sherlock's safety, as it would no doubt have been Mycroft breaking the news to Sherlock.

It was a good thing for John that he was unaware, that this was very, very far from the case.

................

 

Mycroft sat in the maternity waiting room for the rest of that day, and through the night. The labour was progressing normally, and although the baby was a little premature, about a week, it was hoped and expected all would be fine. 

His staff had been using the time to analyse the video footage. They were good at what they did, and had advised him just now, that they had now actually located the cabin where John was being held. 

With the intelligence now available confirming that John was indeed still alive, albeit in a poor way; and what with that and Mummy Holmes intervention, as threatened, at the highest level in Westminster, Whitehall...and the Palace......the SAS team was once again hastily reassembled and prepared and briefed for their urgently reinstated mission. 

The Holmes piggy bank could remain un-raided. The state was prepared to fund this, after all. Those endless teas of crust less sandwiches and petit fours at Windsor and Balmoral between Mummy and Lillibet had not proved simply occasions for social gossip. John Watson's fate mattered so much to her oldest friend that it was now of personal interest to Her Majesty.....

.......... 

Lestrade had so far had no luck at all tracing Sherlock, despite deploying Billy Wiggins to recruit Sherlock's homeless network. It was odd. Really very strange. Normally they were very successful in tracking down those who didn't wish to be found. 

Not this time. 

Not Sherlock.

Not in time for the birth of his son. 

This particular ticking time clock would not be capable of being reset even by Mycroft, or the British Army, regular or special regiments; or by anything that John Watson could do. And unlike Moran's tube train, there wasn't an off switch for this bomb. Sherlock had been wrong on that. Holmes bombs don't have off switches. They just keep going until everything has been obliterated, or changed utterly.

............... 

Sherlock's baby was born at 2.21pm the following day. Healthy, with a shock of black hair, Cupid lips and long almond eyes with dark curly lashes. Six pound two ounces. All fingers, toes, (and other desirable boy-baby attributes) perfectly formed. Long skinny legs and arms. He looked a little like a very angry spider.

But strangely quiet. No crying, no screaming. Just lying there, solemn, inscrutable, cross, thinking the thoughts that babies think. 

'Alicia' was beside herself with pride and happiness, tempered with concern that of the baby's two legal parents, neither were here to see this moment. That could never be recaptured. Then she saw the look on Mycroft Holmes' face when he flung opened the door and strode into the room, seeing his nephew for the first time, closely followed by an equally proud and amazed Anthea (now biologically a mum without having chipped a nail), and at that moment, Alicia knew that this baby would be OK. 

Possibly live a bizarre existence, but never not know love, never be hungry, never be neglected or abused. 

She decided she had done a good job, for strange, but good people. 

...............

Mycroft walked over to the cot, and gazed down at the baby. Narrowed his eyes. Smoothed back his hair a number of times. Smiled an impossibly tender smile.

'You're going to need a name, young man. Don't look at me in that way. We'll put it off as long as possible, so that your father can name you. But if he can't, we'll think of something. Don't worry about it. Just....keep doing what you are doing, whatever that is, being a baby, and......well, wait for him.'

Anthea looked at Mycroft, and his pompous awkward speech, and she was smiling. 

'If it wasn't for the nature of your work, and the medical issues, you'd have loved to have had one like this, wouldn't you?'

Mycroft looked at her. Smiled a small tender, sad smile. One of someone totally reconciled to the way the world is, rather than the way it might have been.

'It's better this way. My work- well. Not conducive. As you know. But if Sherlock and John don't return alive, then. Well. I'll have to make it work.'

Anthea regarded him thoughtfully now.

'What about if Sherlock is....lost to us....but John is rescued? Will the baby be brought up by your parents or by John? He's the named parent but they are Sherlock's next of kin currently, and the blood relatives of the child?'

Mycroft frowned. He didn't want to consider this.

'That will be a difficult discussion. It may depend not only on whether Doctor Watson is rescued, but also on what condition he is in when that happens. He may not be in any fit state to care for a baby. 

In the longer term. Well. It would have to be discussed. And the courts may have a view, too, if it came to that. In the meantime, when he's ready to leave hospital, Baby will be coming to Holmes Manor, and his new Nanny is lined up ready.'

'Who is she?'

She's a splendid girl - well, woman I should say, now, who used to babysit Sherlock as a toddler. And - after his troubles, before Eton, she came back. For a.....little while, to help us out. 

She went on to train as a nanny at Norland, and has worked all over the world. Most recently for the family of a friend of mine.' 

Mycroft thought of Wasim then. His brothers and their children. Kirsty had been a saint with them. Sherlock had been good early training for dealing with impossible spoilt and emotionally neglected rich kids.

'I imagine our family will actually be easier to please than her last employer. Her name is Kirsty Munro. She's quite delightful and the family is spectacularly sound. Her father was in Five for many years.'

Anthea nodded, and the pair of them contemplated un-named baby Holmes, unaware of his already complicated life.


	14. John. To Hell and Back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Heavy chapter :-((( - specific warnings at end of chapter

Thousands of miles away, some hours later, and unaware that legally at least, he had just become a parent to a quiet, dark-haired baby boy, John was starting to become aware that his situation was rapidly becoming more precarious. No sign of a rescue party. A broken arm which was not far off being unsaveable. The thought of losing it made him gag. But then, now, so did the sweet and heavy smell of infection coming from it. 

And now his captors were really unhappy with him. They had heard no response at all to their video message, for which they blamed him personally, and their food stocks were starting to run low: and worse for their tempers; the drink was too. 

They couldn't stay here forever, and so they decided it was time to start the more extreme physical stuff, to force the Holmes' hands. Try and "up the stakes" a bit, see how they danced when their strings were pulled.

And they were going to film it. 

Dragged outside once again, now the rain had stopped, to slump in front of the camera; and stripped to his underwear to properly show the wounds as they were inflicted, John dully wondered how long he would be able to stand this, or whether they would mercifully put an end to him before it reached that point? They'd shown they were happy to kill indiscriminately, so as soon as they thought he was more liability than asset, it would be "goodnight, Vienna". He was starting to wonder if that was such a bad thing?

They didn't seem to have anything in their possession specifically designed to administer a beating, so instead they first just battered him with pieces of wood, and then punched him, each taking a turn and each trying to outdo the last. Several of them had knuckle dusters. The blows rained down, seemingly never-ending. John couldn't breathe, and could only try to protect his head with his one good hand. His body was consequently left completely unguarded against the onslaught.   
When blows sometimes rained down on the shattered arm, it almost sent him under, but even that kindness was denied him.

...................

Albert seemed to take an especially unpleasant interest in proceedings. Not so much in administering the beating, although he had a good turn at that; but later, in standing back while the others had their turn, regarding John in a way that even in his feverish state his prisoner felt uncomfortable about, experiencing a slight prickle of unease running down his spine. 

He'd seen that look before. Moriarty did it before the midnight Semtex showdown at the swimming pool, when he whispered twisted intentions and crude plans into John's ear as he fastened on the bomb vest.

It was a look that said 'If I wanted to - and I might want to - I could have you. Know that.'

John wondered what kind of person would feel physical desire for someone who was injured and helpless, and in the state that he was? And then concluded, probably the same kind of person who shoots casualties dead on stretchers in a crashed helicopter......someone who has lost their humanity, and does terrible things simply to demonstrate their own naked power.....

John was relieved then, when, bleeding from his multitude of new wounds, and now showing a new talent, this time of coughing up impressive amounts of blood (broken ribs?), he was shoved back to his miserable rug on the floor. 

He wondered what had happened, back in England, that no one had come to rescue him? Had even tried? 

Whether there was still any hope of black clad commandos swooping in and saving the day, or he had simply been deemed expendable?

If there was any hope of that commando swoop, they didn't come quickly enough.

...............

John was woken at around two am by the sound of someone quietly moving around the cabin. Maybe getting a drink or something to eat? The food his captors ate was basic but tasty. John got little of it; he could just smell it. But they, this person who was up, were being unusually quiet. The supplies were running short now so maybe one of them wanted to steal their share to secure it. 

No. That wasn't it. Now he could smell something else. Or rather someone. They were walking over towards him. John tried to curl up, away, from whoever it was. Then he smelt the sweet sickly chewing gum. Cherry flavoured. Albert. Shit. 

John knew, then, really. 

He tried to cover his body with his hands but the handcuffs prevented it, and the state of his broken arm meant he really couldn't move now, if it meant bearing any weight. And the shackles on his feet made it pointless to try, though he did so anyway, instinctively. 

The fever from his infection had dulled his thoughts, too, and while he was aware that he should, for his own safety, be quiet and still, he nonetheless tried to call out, as if someone out there would care. 

His cry was stifled only half uttered, as he felt the point of a razor sharp long-bladed knife being pressed hard against the side of his throat. 

'You. Are going to be quiet. Not say any word. And if you are quiet and you are good, I will give you bread, after. Anyway, I know from the Google, this is what you like, what you do, you people. Dirty people. You will enjoy. I expect.'

John was terrified, probably beyond anything he'd experienced in Afghanistan. Beyond the momentary terror of the Barbican siege. He felt sick. He tried to keep himself together for as long as possible, stared defiantly up at the stinking smirking Albert. Given the option, he would have volunteered to take Albert's knife across the throat. But he wasn't given the choice. He realised this was partly why Albert hadn't already killed him, he was saving him for this. Still trying to maintain composure, these last moments, he gritted his teeth. But he knew he had little left of it, composure, and he was shaking uncontrollably.

Albert was undoing his belt, and then his thick jeans. The cherry smell from the chewing gum was overpowering now, and John could see the man's tall solid body, the thick hair, the pot belly, the unmistakeable bulge of his erection, the unwashed smell. John didn't know whether this man had been involved in the rapes of women and children (the reason for Johns presence in the region), but, regardless of that, he knew he didn't want this man, (who had now - oh God - removed his pants and bared himself, his violent hardness springing free) - inside him. Not now, not ever.

Now, at this last moment, his composure and his courage deserted him, turning him from a brave resisting prisoner to a pleading victim. Still a brave man, always that, but one who knows now, that his bravery hasn't been enough to save him.

'Please', he whispered, not wanting to anger Albert further. 'Please don't do this. Please. What about if I give you a hand job, yes? Every night I'm here. I'm good at it, really I am...and I'll never tell. Or I'll suck you off. Just - don't...'

He just laughed. Albert laughed at John. At his pleading. John couldn't breathe. It wasn't just that he couldn't escape. He couldn't even really move. His head throbbed and he felt nausea rising. He couldn't bear being laughed at. Never could. Not even as a kid.

Albert didn't even bother answering, instead roughly pulling off John's pants, which were all they'd left him with since the filmed beating, nodding in amusement at the sight of John's limp, defiantly, resolutely limp cock. 

John couldn't even attempt to stop him now, tied as he was, with his arm as it was, just shaking his head and saying 'No', over and over again. 

Now Albert made John lie on his front. He couldn't make him go on all fours with the broken arm, as he couldn't bear weight, so instead Albert simply got a pile of logs from by the log burner and made a crude pile for John to lie over. He had no choice but to mutely comply and lay over the logs at knifepoint, groaning. The bark, especially, was agony. The knowledge that there was no way out from this now, was worse.

Albert, his cock hard and erect, a spear of violent threat and degradation, crawled over to loom over John, who could smell his breath closer now and in response could only whimper and mumble a rhyme his class had chanted in infants school, when they put their little wooden chairs onto the melamine tables in readiness for the cleaners each night:

"Now the day is over  
Night is drawing nigh  
Shadows of the evening  
Creep across the sky...."

He whispered it to himself like some kind of ritual incantation, to keep the devil away, but it didn't work. Just as he got to the end of the first verse, it started.

The idea of someone who wasn't Sherlock doing this to him made John feel angry and sick in equal measure. He knew that if he had the chance, Albert would not leave this camp alive. He started to hyperventilate, unable to find a way of taking in enough air with his chest crushed and unable to move to get a better position.

For now though, Albert was very much alive, and either didn't believe in lube or didn't have any. He didn't prepare John and he lined himself up and breached him in one harsh pitiless movement, mercilessly forcing into him past all physical impediments and defences and fully seating himself viciously hard, his balls rammed against Johns backside. 

John felt as though part of him died, then, when he felt himself being brutalised. He could feel pain, and then a trickling wet sensation, which had nothing to do with natural or artificial lubrication. Blood. He knew, he was a fucking doctor. 

And Albert never paused, not even when it was clear that the man below him was being injured by the assault. It seemed to excite him further, if anything. Now he was hammering away, his hand pushing down on Johns neck, John's bruised and battered body crushed against the sharp bark of the logs, unable to make any adjustment to his position to ease the agony because of the arm. 

It had only ever been Sherlock there, doing that. Only him. It was meant only ever to have been him, for always. Not now. Spoiled and used now. Sherlock wouldn't want him back. Wouldn't want....oh God..no....

The violence and the groaning thrusts seemed to go on for ever. John began to lose his grip on the present, his fever and injuries and the shock of....this.....and despite there being little in his stomach he vomited, but there was no muscle power to project anything, the pale blameless liquid just dripping from his mouth in an unbroken trail to the floor.

Albert seemed to take a long time to reach climax, possibly partly because of the total lack of response from his victim, or maybe he was just wanting to prolong it. Eventually, however, he groaned a few more times, arched, and came, his vile fluid spreading inside John, ruining his soul. John coughed up more blood, and then he fainted.

After a few more jerks, Albert pulled out carelessly and climbed off his now motionless subject. Some bleeding, he noted. Adds to the overall picture. He redressed and left John there, still manacled, now naked, splayed over a pile of firewood logs. Unconscious, and with a fever now spreading through his body. The evidence of his disgusting assault smeared and dripping from his backside onto the floor.

Before he went, Albert took a photo, to add as an attachment to the email with the video of the earlier beating. Pressed send. Smiled. Wished he could see the faces at the other end. That would be worth seeing....especially that of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.

....................

 

Mycroft got the video file of the beating on his phone. Watched that. Shook his head. 

Then he looked at the picture still, taken by Albert, of the degraded body of John Watson. Borrowed an iPad to get a better, larger sized picture, to confirm his suspicions. Wished he had not done that. 

After the event, clearly, but only just, and it didn't take a genius to see what had happened.......This was much worse than he had feared. The beating was bad enough, on the video, but this....

Mycroft swallowed hard. Poor John. He'd rarely felt truly sympathetic to the man, who he still saw as part-saviour and part-danger to his brother's physical and mental well-being. Now he realised his delay in launching a rescue might have enabled this assault. He was going to have to live with that one, and answer to it. 

He wondered if John would really want to be rescued, now, given what he was going through, and given the news he would be given about Sherlock? But, Mummy Holmes had spoken. And there was the baby. Still getting text updates on the extraction mission, he went back into the baby's room to speak with Kirsty.

..............

 

The two helicopters hovered at dusk that night, in a forestry logging clearing several kilometres away from the cabin's pinpointed location. 

The commandos would attempt to subdue the rebel gang and rescue John, and only then call the choppers in closer for retrieval. The choppers didn't land even here, though, hovering a few yards above the tree-stump strewn ground, the commandos jumping the last few feet and rolling away.

Not for the first time in these stories, a slim and feminine figure was among them. Anthea. She'd left Mycroft at the hospital, with his blessing, as soon as she heard the operation was a go. If John was alive, she wanted to be the first one to tell him that she had provided him with a baby son. And this was the only way to do it......well.....Okay, maybe she just liked this kind of stuff anyway.....

She hoped John would be conscious so she could give him the news. Unlike Sherlock, she thought he would take to the baby straight away once he saw him. And it might give him something to survive this. She had seen the photo: the only person Mycroft had shared it with. It had made her wince, but she said nothing, other than to make up her mind she should definitely go, and to tell Mycroft she would deal with John. The guys were good, but this needed something different than shock and awe alone.

She hadn't decided whether she would tell John about Sherlock's disappearance, though. Let's get him out first and worry about that later, was her approach. Unless they find Sherlock's body. Then he'll have to know.

They cut their way through the forest, moving silently and using sign language to communicate. The trees were Sitka spruce and the sharp brush branches came down low, requiring small machetes to clear the way. They couldn't risk using existing tracks, which might be guarded or booby trapped.

Eventually, they were nearing the cabin. They could see four guards stationed around it. Luckily, they were paying more attention to diversions like a porn mag, an iPod playlist, and arguing with one another about whose turn it was to empty the earth toilet, when the commandos, in perfect coordination, came up silently behind each of them and using wire ligatures on them, pulled back until they were unconscious, or more. This was good. Very good. No sound, and no shots to date. 

Now for the main action.

They crept up to the cabin. Initially they gathered on the eastern wall, where there were no windows. All the other sides had windows.They organised themselves under Anthea's direction. Pete and Karim, in first through the door. A second later, Mitch and Anthea would come through the windows. That way, the rebels would be looking at the door, and wouldn't see the second wave. 

They only had one objective. Get Watson out. If possible, get him out alive. 

Either way, he was not to be left to be interrogated or tortured or further abused. If he died in the process of ensuring that; Mycroft Holmes had made it clear that was not an unacceptable, though not desirable, outcome. 

He believed John would prefer it that way: he was a proud man.

..................

 

Three. Two. One. Gloved fingers counted down.

IN. 

The door swung open and the stun grenades and smoke bombs were thrown. They knew that their hostage was in a bad way and wouldn't be mingling with the attackers, so could afford to lose vision to some extent. Their masks protected them from the effects of the gas. 

It worked like a dream. For once. The rebels were overcome by smoke and gas before they had a chance to draw a single weapon. They were bound and cuffed and roped together before being taken away. They would be guarded and picked up by another chopper that was already on its way. 

They didn't initially see any sign of John Watson. But then, as the smoke cleared, like in the movies, but this wasn't a film; they found the naked splayed out figure of a small man, slumped over a log pile, unconscious, a man with an arm that looked like the sort of mess the commandos had only previously seen in Iraq or Afghanistan, twisted all the wrong way, swollen and infected, a man with wounds over every inch of his body, and one who had very obviously, and very recently, been violently raped. He stank of diahorrea and galloping infection, possibly gangrenous.

Anthea saw her men blanch at the sight. Two turned their heads away. At the sight, and the smell of gangrene and shit; but also at the sight of a soldier, one of their own, raped and left for dead.

She found it easier than they did, not harder. Because she knew John, and liked him, even though he never thought it; she liked him for his bravery and his doggedness though she worried about his temper. For her, the need to do the right thing by him, or whatever was left of him, came instinctively. 

She pointed to the commandos in turn, barking out orders. Sending them out, basically. In a few minutes they were constructing a makeshift stretcher from their shirts and two long birch poles they cut from trees. Anthea didn't tell them that there was actually a perfectly good stretcher in the chopper which would arrive imminently. They weren't needed now for combat and this way, they were out of the way but felt useful and wouldn't vomit on her boots, and she could concentrate on making John more comfortable and dignified. 

This was a task for someone who was calm and careful and who knew how important this task was to be done right. She was in her absolute element. One of the things Mycroft so valued her for, was the fact that the tougher the brief, the more Anthea relished it. He saved her for the special missions, those involving his family, or especially vulnerable targets, because she never, ever, lost her cool. Cool was what she did. He didn't want to risk losing her on anything less.

She covered her mouth and breathed through her nose. Then, she cleaned up John's body wounds and the rest of the mess as best she could. He looked better for it, though still terribly small and vulnerable. And now, she turned to the unpleasant part, apologising to John in advance, just in case he had any level of consciousness and could hear her; removing a rape kit from her kitbag and swabbing and taking scrape samples and blood samples and dried semen samples from in and around his anus, trying to avoid disturbing any of the internal wounds too much while she did her work. 

She couldn't do a lot about his arm. The medics would decide on that. She left it alone. 

A deep breath once the rape kit was safely finished and stowed, she cleaned up the area as best she could without disturbing any clotting blood. John was unconscious still. There wouldn't be any big reveal about baby today, after all. 

But he would, hopefully, now live to meet him.

The final spare Marines shirt she placed over Johns private parts, the gesture seeming appropriate for John as a soldier, to give him back a soldier's dignity, and the Marines gently lifted him onto the homemade stretcher, as the sound of an approaching helicopter filled the night sky. 

Mission accomplished. 

.............

She spoke to Mycroft by telephone as soon as it was safe to do so, and they were outside hostile territory. 

'He's in a very poor way. But at least no lives lost or injuries in getting him out. So politically a success. Whether he survives will depend on that arm. It's a real mess, I think gangrene. Of course he might survive but only at the cost of losing it. Just impossible to tell until the doctors get a look at it. He's still unconscious.' 

Mycroft was sombre. 

'And do I assume that my suspicions from the still photograph were correct?'

'Yes. He was definitely raped, pretty violently, and recently too. There's bleeding internally, it's fairly horrible, I'm not sure if stitches will be needed, but suspect they will be. I've taken rape kit samples. I think I might know which of our detainees it was; he's the only one speaking any English and he's looking a lot more frightened and jumpy than the rest. I've DNA sampled all of them: he was also the only one who objected to that. He's definitely worried.'

'So he should be.'

Mycroft thanked Anthea and instructed that while the other three rebels be handed over to the standard interrogation team, this fourth man (the man we know as "Albert") be brought to London. To M16 HQ. Because Mycroft Holmes wished to have a 'quiet word' with him. 

Anthea sat back in the plane as the medic on board got to work on John. A fan directed the smell of rotting flesh away from him, and he used a mask, but still frowned as he worked. It was all straightforward enough, what he could do for now; drip, antibiotics, morphine; except for that arm. Anthea caught the doctors eye. He grimaced, with a look that said 'I'm really not sure about this'. She tried to give a sympathetic nod, and said:

'I know. Do whatever you can. There's several shocks awaiting him at home, and losing his arm isn't going to help him cope with either of them.'

......................

 

All this......activity. All this excitement - the baby. All this suffering - John. All this drama - his rescue. 

And yet, of the central figure of these stories, the point, in the end, of these tales; there has been silence. Complete, muffled, nothingness. An absence of light, or the spark of a flame, or the trail of a comet across the sky. 

Where was Sherlock Holmes, this force of life, this man meteor, now? 

A bloated corpse, floating to the estuary beach, giving up its sad secrets, weeks later and miles away, from where a lonely hopeless man walked into the water, his long black Belstaff coat pockets filled with broken bricks picked up on the muddy Thames foreshore near the shingle inlet at Queenshithe? 

Or a rotting carcass slumped against a brick wall in an abandoned dock warehouse out towards Tilbury, greenish water pouring down the walls from the smashed skylight, dripping onto the lifeless face, as the insects perform their civic duty of cleaning the bones, while piles of used syringes lie discarded nearby.

Or a hanging body in a clearing in a peaceful wooded area of the beloved Heath, not far from the pools where the man had swum on chilly mornings, swinging from the high branch of a tree and moving as the wind rises and falls. A long coat flapping gently. A note, encased in a plastic bag, weighted by a stone, remaining nearby, patiently, waiting to be found. A curious badger pausing to sniff before resuming his nocturnal ramble

Or perhaps a tear-stained white-faced dark haired man walking steadily out in a dark suit and long black coat, onto the steel railway tracks in front of a high speed train, standing and staring defiantly at the blinding headlights before hundreds of tonnes of Intercity 17:30 high speed service hit him, and transform him into shreds of flesh and smears of body parts for unfortunate staff to clean away into rubbish sacks. Identification from dental records. Delays to rush hour services for hours.

Not quite. Almost. 

But not quite....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for explicit description of rape and graphic description of injury.


	15. Sherlock....

Baby Holmes still didn't have a name. 

As John Watson's terrible, battered body was wheeled into one door of the hospital, for surgeons to whistle and frown at, in the manner of less reputable car mechanics; and to wonder if that arm was really, honestly, saveable; his baby, well, Sherlock's baby, but legally John's too: was glaring his defiantly mute farewell to his proud birth mother. 

He still looked exactly like a spider. His hair, black and fluffy, wouldn't stick down, and his spindly limbs just grew longer each day that passed. 'Alicia' was studiously ignoring his infant scowl; pleased her work was done, with a healthy baby boy she was loving and leaving to take up her newly affluent life. No grumpy silent spiders for her, she had her lovely placid smiley family of her own. 

Grumpy spider baby was being handed over to the temporary custody of Granny and Grandpa Holmes. This had been agreed by the family court a few days ago, a court whose judges were "concerned" about this whole arrangement, and even more about the fact both parents were now missing, possibly dead; so the presiding judge ordered that an initial six week residence order should be made in favour of Sherlock's parents, in these unusual circumstances. 

The Holmes family hadn't really wanted to involve the authorities, of course; normally they told the authorities what to do, rather than the other way round: but the baby was in legal limbo, and that isn't a good start in life. So there had been little option, once it was clear John and Sherlock were both firmly in Terra Incognito.

The upshot of all this, was that, (and it would have horrified Sherlock, had he known), Baby Holmes was going to Holmes Manor.......

Anthea took a photo of the baby just before they got into the car. Her memento of her flawless genetic handiwork, albeit scowling fiercely, she could frame it and put it in the office, she thought, next to the photo of Mummy and Daddy, and next to the only other photo, her personal favourite; of her (with her face fetchingly blanked out) receiving her wings for passing out into 22 Special Air Service Regiment of the British Army......her proudest day to date. She now felt equally proud of this achievement, whilst at the same time wondering if Mycroft had finally overreached himself with this one, this whole baby project; all this playing God? She herself had done this for Mycroft, true; but Mycroft had done it for the family, and she imagined he really thought he'd done it for Sherlock too, and that last part of it, just that part, appeared now as if it had gone terribly, tragically wrong.

Mycroft himself knew that, too, in his heart, she thought; but his heart was already full of something else; he literally couldn't take his eyes off that baby. He was besotted, mused Anthea; in the way of a middle aged man, who says he "doesn't actually like cats", but whenever the world looks away, has them sinuously winding all around his legs, and talking to them in long and involved conversations about "whether they liked the tuna they had last night, because it was on the menu again tonight"....

Grandma and Grandpa Holmes were completely torn in two, adoring of their first and probably only grandchild; and yet clearly reminded every single time they looked at him of their beloved and deeply troubled younger son, missing now for days and days: and with no news, every passing day bringing less hope of that news being good, if and when it came. They weren't mourning yet, but Anthea could see in their eyes the hope progressively fading. Yet they tried to be cheerful and upbeat. This was what they had wanted, after all, what they had gambled on, just like Mycroft. The gamble just hadn't come off completely. They, like Anthea, were wondering if it had truly been worth it? 

Playing with high stakes is fine - until you lose.

.....................

Holmes Manor was situated off a tiny twisting snaking little lane that runs close to the River Avon, halfway between Bradford on Avon and Bath, on the borders of Wiltshire and Somerset, skirting the southern edge of the Cotswolds. It's a glorious part of England that makes you think of Eliot's Four Quartets, if Eliot is your thing: timeless and beautiful in any season, whatever route you came to find it, you would end up here, and find history and England melted into one. 

Heavily gabled, long and rambling, and built of honey coloured stone, the Manor's golden facade and symmetrical wings presented a very pleasing aesthetic. It was utterly timeless, speaking of early wealth from the nearby medieval monasteries, and then, later, aggrandisement from the highly lucrative wool trade. 

The only building older in the area was the Saxon church in nearby Bradford on Avon, and that ancient building had been used since well before the Normandy bastard William came and defeated the exhausted veterans of Stamford Bridge on the hill outside Hastings, and the Norman yoke descended on the land. 

William Holmes, too, used to go there as a pre-teen, as it wasn't far from the Manor, and sit in the chapel, which had no electricity, as the light faded on a winter's afternoon (in proper Eliot fashion), swinging his legs below the pew, and fancy he could hear the Saxon villagers once again pass by the tiny doorway, chattering on their way down to buy provisions in the Shambles. He was never much one for history generally, but this tiny simple chapel was different, and it spoke to him.

Another William, another age. 

The Manor grounds these days, (some having been sold off to meet death-duties in the Seventies), amounted to around twenty acres with some modest and comely lawns at the front. But the jewel of this house, its rare prize, were the emerald expanses of lawns and the wildflower meadows, that ran downhill from the back of the house towards the offshoot of the main river. Several small lakes and copses of trees added interest, and down by the riverside there was a private mooring and an old houseboat, of very dubious seaworthiness these days, but used when the children were small to travel up and down the river. 

Those were the days of garden parties with games and pony rides on fat Shetlands, of tennis tournaments and weak barley-water for the set breaks, and of magicians and balloon modellers on their birthdays, and of croquet; when Sherlock was tiny and Mycroft was the first mate of the pirate houseboat ship. And when Sherry was there, the captain of the ship.....

No. 

At this point the memories dissolved into a red fog and were put away, just as those from later on were poisoned. 

The summerhouse had been demolished, of course, after Sherlock had been carried out of it by Mycroft, screaming and fighting, that terrible hot summer; and taken to the doctors and then to hospital, and onwards to inevitable exposure of what had been going on. No one wanted the summerhouse there any more. 

But strangely, the houseboat remained, a relic of a lost childhood, out of sight and out of mind. Mycroft back at university again, now a changed and frozen young man, turned away fully from sentiment and affection. Sherlock, a traumatised, hollow shell of a wild-eyed boy, knowing too much about things he should not know, turning in on himself, away from the world, until there was nothing left, rarely leaving his room. 

Damp. Abandoned. Alone. There is nothing so sad, as a boat that cannot sail, or chug, or putter, and nothing as depressing as one that leaks, like a watery tomb, devoid of purpose and life.

Not alone, though...... 

Alone was, for once, the wrong word.

....................

 

There was a cabin on the old boat, one with lockers, mahogany ones with brass ring handles inset, just like on a real pirate ship. Rusted tins of food, years, decades old. Strange foods, now, mostly brands which didn't even exist anymore, of beans, tinned Spam, soups. Back then they were all labelled "Pemmican" by the Holmes boys, in tribute to the Swallows and Amazons stories Mycroft and Sherlock loved so much. Sherry wasn't much of a reader, preferring rugby and cricket.

None of which, anyone should touch if they valued their health, it was all so ancient. More than twenty years, this collection of salty preserved cans had mouldered here. Silver trails marked the paths of snails over the tins, and abandoned cobwebs thick with dust shook, when an occasional boat passed by on the main river a hundred yards from this backwater, creating ripples of movement on the still-inky surface of the water. The only other disturbance of the riverbank, just now, there, a water vole, one just like Ratty in the "Wind in the Willows", another favourite book. A book that Mycroft refused to read out loud any more to the wriggling seven year old William, once the wretched boy decided that Mycroft was Mr Toad and giggled and snorted hysterically until his bedtime drink of milk came out of his nose.....

The tin opener, an old fashioned one, was another health hazard in itself, just a glorified metal spike, more rust than implement. 

Everything was soaking wet. Everything was slimy and green. Beetles roamed freely. This was no place for anyone to spend more than a minute or two peering into from outside. 

................

But someone was here. 

Someone who was eating this stash. Very little and very, very slowly. Only when they were high enough to face it, but not so high they were off their face, and only when they were once again starving enough to have to. 

There was green brackish water on the floor of the cabin, the whole boat was leaking like a sieve. The rugs on the bed were damp. The pillows too, stained and sodden. 

Syringes lay scattered around like confetti, used, uncapped, and heedlessly discarded. A bulk pack of 100 syringes was already nearly half empty. There was no sign of a sharps bin, or any alcohol wipes, or tourniquets. Nearby, high on a shelf to protect it from the standing water, sat a sizeable fat brown paper parcel holding two constituent plastic packets. Weighty things they were. The dealer had kept him waiting for this amount, requiring a deposit and forty eight hours to make contact with bigger links up the criminal chain to secure it.

Cocaine, and heroin. 

Where, then, was the occupant of this watery hellhole? 

...................

The skeleton-thin figure dragged himself back along the narrow twisting path. He'd caught fish here, as a child. Easily, then, even with just a toy rod. Not so much, now. Now, he didn't seem to be able to coordinate his body to cast a line or a net, or his mind to work out what he was doing wrong. He could see the fish, but they, like his sanity, were out of reach.

Not that he cared very much. 

He had no way of cooking the fish, it had just been an idea he'd had when he was last high. It wouldn't be long until he was high again, and then he might have another idea. A better one, perhaps than home caught sashimi? But he didn't think so. Ideas were getting thin on the ground.

He was moaning gently, now, his long arms wrapped around his body like straitjacket straps, and mumbling under his breath, as he tripped and stumbled on exposed tree roots. His thoughts, expressed out loud in a spitting whisper, were poisonous ones, of self-loathing and disgust. He sounded deranged. 

He was deranged. 

He was always a coward. Always had been. One of his many failings, in his failing mind. He'd not had the courage to end things properly and quickly, like any decent proper man would, being the failure even at that task, like everything else. This, now, was his only comprehension of the meaning of courage. To kill oneself quickly, and efficiently.

Couldn't do anything properly, not then, not then, not then, and not now. He needed to get on with it. It was too slow. Dragging it out. No more of that. No longer. Boring.

....................

He had turned gratefully to the embrace of the speedballs, and was fast upping the dosage of both elements, especially the heroin. It was his final experiment. The final problem, Moriarty would have smirked and sneered with his mad black eyes and smiling face. How much of each could he take; how much in combination: how much would it take to kill him? He'd never know the final answer, of course, only the dose prior to the fatal one, but perhaps someone else could make use of the data?

He'd been making careful notes to start with, on a blackboard, originally used for messages like 'Buy biskits' 'Make Mycoff walk plank again' and 'Buy parrot (one with Red fethers)'. The chalk was damp, and he had to press hard to see the figures. 

Either the chalk was getting damper, or he was getting weaker, as he struggled now to make them visible. 

On the floor of the boat, floating in the green water, were relics of their far off childhood. Arrows with suckers on the end which you licked and shot at plastic targets (or, more often, the back of Mycroft or Sherry's heads). A toy sword, plastic again, chewed by a rat since its heyday. A toy telescope for sighting enemy ships. A kaleidoscope, long since rusted up into immobility so that only the single last colourful vision that William had viewed here, remained. Sherlock had tried to see into it, but when he lifted it to his eyes, all he got was an eyeful of rust flakes and mouse droppings. 

Unaccountably, when that happened it was the only time he'd cried here, bawling like a child, hunched up and clutching at his knees, the tears rolling down his legs. That was several days ago, and his mind was now too dulled and his thoughts too disturbed to trigger anything so dramatic.

................

Coming down was the worst bit, so this man - Sherlock Holmes - or what traces remained of him - was not leaving much of that part to chance for long, before shooting up again. Because it was then, the coming down, that he saw John's face. Saw him begging for his life, to hard-faced heavily armed men. Saw him shot in the back. Saw him violated. Saw his body, the empty eyes staring and seeing nothing, the birds in the trees waiting to strip his flesh. 

Wolves and jackals snarling in the shadows. 

Their turn, soon.

That was why Sherlock Holmes was determined to die this time. Not to fail. Not again. 

................

He never even thought of his tiny helpless son. Never wondered if he had been born, what he looked like, what he was called. There was no room for any of it, it was just so much noise in his head, already so full of noise and voices and anger and shame and self-loathing. 

Only room for John. Always John, filling his mind and his whole empty soul. And John was gone, left to die by Sherlock's own family, and in return, Sherlock would in turn die, just as he had vowed; and they could forget him and replace him with the new, shinier, better version, that they could mould into being the proper Holmes heir. Not worry about. Be proud of. Love, instead of gazing at with worry and guilt and disappointment at so much potential wasted, lost. 

Squandered. A horrible word, but from the outside he knew, that's what many people thought. The man who had so many advantages in life, aside from one "unfortunate" six week period, and really, really, should he not have moved on by now from all that? It was twenty five years, ago, Sherlock,........and you are alive, unlike poor Sherrinford.....

His mind had become fragmented, now, breaking down into slender icicle shaped shards. Beautiful and crystalline, pure and unreachable. He reached for his next syringe, looking at it lovingly, like the child with a favourite toy, and prepared the drugs. 

He could do it without thinking now, which was probably a good thing, as thinking was becoming a challenge. His world had narrowed to this tiny soaking wet space, and that powder and that other powder, and that was absolutely ok by him. Waking up again, or not. It's all fine. All good.

Baker Street, and warm evenings by the fire, and takeaway, and Mrs Hudson tutting and flapping, and John's warm golden body, oh, his precious small strong solid body; were so far away now; it was another life. Another person. Little of that person left now. The needle slid in, his arm now a manuscript of track marks. Bliss gradually spread through his veins. It was taking a lot more to get that feeling now. Not long.

He sank back onto the damp pillows, coughing. The cold and dampness had sent his cough and cold to his chest, and he thought it might be turning to pneumonia. In fact, he was behind the times; it had done already. The thought didn't concern him. Anything to hasten peaceful oblivion. Ensured release. As the drugs took effect he lay quiet now, the wheezing of his chest struggling to take in air, the only sound apart from the lapping of the water against the side of the boat. It was hypnotic. Soothing. There were worse places to go. He'd been in a lot of them.

He went to withdraw the needle, but as he did so he began to feel extremely ill. He suddenly couldn't move any of his limbs. The pain descended like a red theatre curtain, and he gasped and choked. The needle remained in his arm..... 

He'd read a poem once with the line  
"Alone, most strangely, I live on."  
That was not his intention. Not without John. Perhaps, then, this was his moment? As Major Sholto had said, the only other man to ever be graced with John's romantic attention, and a man Sherlock both envied and admired for it; there was a right time and day to die. 

And now he knew. This was his day. His time. He would not panic. He would embrace it, like a soldier, and John and Sholto would be proud of him. The delusion just illustrated his fragmentation.

Sinking, sinking, sinking.

Then he was gone.

A stuffed bee toy lay abandoned and silently sodden on the floor.

...............

 

Baby Holmes, the unreasonably silent and grumpy child, was settled into a temporary nursery at Holmes Manor, with his doting new nanny in charge. 

Kirsty had taken some persuading to come an hour and a half out of London, away from her friends and all credible social life. But Mycroft had explained some of the situation to her, as much as he could, and wished to; and the woman who had once cuddled a strange dark curly haired pale little boy and read him "Swallows and Amazons" and "The Borrowers", originally with William happily curled up in bed; later, less happily, reading through a door to a Sherlock in a prison-cell of his own making, she felt she had no choice but to agree to help his newborn son, especially when Mycroft threw in the line about 'helping national security.' 

So she tended to the strange wide-eyed baby, and ignored his permanent black moods, and made sure that with no parents, he was at least clean and well-cared for and regularly hugged. He regarded her like the rest of his slaves, with alternating disdain or disgust. She'd had more rewarding charges......

................

At the hospital in Bath, where Mycroft had asked for him to be taken, so that he was closest to the Manor, and to the baby; surgeons were preparing to operate straight away on John's shattered arm. The top limb-reconstruction specialist in Europe had been flown in from Norway. More used to treating wealthy skiing casualties than shadowy secret-service army doctors, the established and deep-seated infection in this case was unusual. But he would do his best, the man said, with an air of the utterly confident and very well-paid professional. The best case was in simple terms non-amputation. The worst case, well; that was death in-theatre - or from possible complications after the op if they did not take the decision to amputate the arm, at least from the elbow down.

John was prepped for theatre now. He had been semi-conscious since soon after arrival, when they had come and sedated him to make the internal stitches to his back passage, but he was not really awake and not communicating, his small thin frame looking smaller still, clad just in a white hospital gown. He had lost masses of weight during his ordeal, both from lack of food and from the raging fever. Up to a point, Sherlock had always looked okay being thin. John simply looked what he was; terribly abused and terribly sick. He was wheeled in. The theatre clock started ticking. It was going to be a long day.

.....................

Harry Watson had been telephoned by a strained sounding Mycroft Holmes. Harry didn't trust the elder Holmes any more than she did his deranged brother. She hadn't heard from John for months, and had saved up her anger into a spitting fury. Mycroft could have it instead, she decided. She shouted ripe expletives at him when he told her John was hurt; she hadn't even known he'd gone back to the army.

As soon as Mycroft said "it wasn't army, as such, exactly, Harry", but that he'd been in an army helicopter when it crashed, she knew pretty much what Brother John had really been up to all this time, and exploded at Mycroft. Playing double-oh fucking Seven with the rest of Mycroft's spooks, risking his life for the crack of it? Food for powder, Falstaff had that one bang right. You didn't see Mycroft on a hospital trolley, did you, with a jigsaw box of bones for an arm? Fucking hell. Fucking Holmes fucking leeches, sucking her family away from her. Psychopaths, the lot of them. She said all of this out loud.

Mycroft waited until she had run out of this foul commentary, and then coolly informed her of the details of where John had been taken, and that a car would be coming to pick her up, should she choose to make use of it. He wished her good day, and ended the call.

Harry did get into the limousine, and defiantly smoked all the way from London to Bath, stubbing out several fags into the leather seats. After exiting the smoky car interior, she needed to get herself together. She knew John was in surgery, and she sat outside the hospital in a chain-run coffee shop, nursing her distinctly indifferent cappucino, and rueing in equal measure the day her brother joined the regular army, and the day he met Sherlock Holmes. It's an addiction, she thought glumly. Just like mine is to the drink. He's addicted to the danger, to the thrill of it, he just hides his demon better and it's more socially acceptable. Sooner or later, he'll get himself killed, or kill someone, and he's getting bloody close to it now. 

Her short blonde hair cut in a flattering wedge, heavy eyeliner and her nails bitten down, glowering at anyone crossing her path, Harry was not enjoying the wait. She ordered another coffee, a grande skinny latte this time, and mentally undressed the waitresses in turn, one of whom was, she thought, smiling at her rather too often, and who seemed highly amused by Harry's sulky manner. Flirting, just a little. Harry now ordered a brownie, and when it arrived, carried by Amused Waitress, it came with stuff she knew they didn't come with, not without paying extra. Ice cream, hot chocolate sauce, all the trimmings. 

Interesting. She scooped up some sauce with her finger, and licked it off. Then glanced up. Oh yes, she hadn't been wrong, then. She licked her lips. It could have been John, doing that. A shared family trait. Lick your lips when you're flirting.

Smiley waitress had rather fantastic breasts, too, from what Harry could make out, and Harry was a connoisseur. Her own tits were just how she liked them in her girlfriends. Enough for a good rolling handful, perky and ideally even. Her gobby little brother might have been "Three Continents", but Harry was scarcely less enthusiastic, her opportunities having been only curtailed by random periods in rehab. 

To be fair, the sulky look she was sporting was indeed a very attractive look on Harry. Especially when she donned a French fisherman's cap and fiddled with her frayed denim shorts, worn with opaque black tights and skinny sneakers. 

Maybe she'd slip her phone number under her cup, with her tip....she'd not turn down the chance of peeling that waitress's tight black uniform quickly off her in the stuffy stock room, touching and teasing her until she gasped and sighed and came, over and over, in the appraising sights of Harry's sulky gaze and her tight embrace; fingers knowledgeable and deft, tongue skilful, and her superb breasts and thighs pressed close.

Harry began to feel slightly better about life, after all, and she left her mobile number tucked under the coffee cup. The printed receipt for her coffee and brownie said "Tara". Tara. Nice. 

It was a pity to have to go back to face a showdown with her brother, the pocket bisexual Action Man, really. 

She'd have preferred to stay here and advance her knowledge of Tara anatomy.

She sighed, and shoved back her chair. Here goes.

.................

Back at Holmes Manor, and amidst the peace of the Wiltshire meadows, Mycroft discovered with horror, that Mr and Mrs Holmes had very recently acquired a puppy from Lord knows where. He wondered if it was an attempt at distraction for them, from the trauma of Sherlock's disappearance? 

It was another bloody Red Setter, just like Redbeard. Loopy, too, which was something of a breed characteristic (you don't, he observed, see them doing obedience classes, do you?), but even more so, being so young. Totally unsuitable for people approaching their seventies. Really, his parents became more of a mystery to him the older he got. He cursed them, as he slipped AGAIN in the hallway on a puddle of yellow puppy pee. 

(The feeling was probably mutual, though, about mystery, had Mycroft considered that possibility. His parents found Mycroft, at least the man he had become, pretty unfathomable too. Though they understood the reasons for it; the same reason Mummy was even more garrulous and headstrong, and obsessed with village minutae, and Daddy was quieter and sadder).

Mummy explained that after his heart operation, they thought it would be good for Daddy to have a dog, something he would need to take for walks, gentle exercise and all that. They called the puppy Sinbad, continuing the pirate theme from their previous beloved setter. 

Mycroft thought it was a frankly lamentable idea, especially when his parents quickly became so taken with babysitting No-Name Baby, that he was press-ganged into taking Sinbad for his morning walk. Him. The British Government. No, Mother, he was not taking a "poop scoop" bag with him. What else were blasted gardeners for? He did deign to agree to take some golf putting-green flags with him, to mark the 'scenes of the crimes', however.

They stayed quite close to the house the first time they went out. It was boring, and Mycroft was bored and irritated in equal measure.

But the second day, halfway down the lawns Sinbad quickly ran off, catching the scent of a rabbit, Mycroft guessed. There were plenty around and the gardeners complained about them. Mycroft didn't know why they didn't just shoot them. Good eating, high in protein and low in fat. Plenty more where they came from.

They were out earlier, that second morning; not long after dawn, and the grass was heavy with dew and cobwebs. The earth smelt damp and fresh, the gardens stunning, and Mycroft remembered again why he loved this place. His love for it had been dented by events, but not broken, not shattered, like it had for Sherlock. But then, it hadn't been Mycroft it happened to? And of course he'd had many more good years here, before the awful ones.

...............

Sinbad didn't come back. 

Mycroft bellowed at the puppy but to no avail. He walked, and then jogged after him, not wanting to let him out of sight, but couldn't catch up. He began to worry about the river. The puppy was too young to swim, and if he got away into the main channel, the current was deceptively strong. 

They were getting close to the water now. Mycroft, out of breath, caught up with Sinbad as he reached the river bank. But Sinbad, at one point almost grasped; eluded him again and ran off down towards the gloomy old houseboat, moored up and listing next to the landing stage underneath the bank of huge willow trees. There were some small elms here too, either not large enough for Dutch Elm disease to have taken hold yet, or perhaps an immune strain. A whispering tiny echo of how English countryside looked before the annihilation of the disease.

Sinbad finally allowed himself to be caught, only when he was suddenly more interested in sniffing at the houseboat than running off. Mycroft went to put his lead on, but the puppy began barking and straining against Mycroft's hand on his collar. 

Sinbad wanted to get onto the boat. 

Something, or someone, was in there. And Sinbad knew it.

................

Mycroft instantly went on full alert. Security was always a big concern, and the river was a bit of an Achilles heel for that, in respect of the Manor. It's why Mycroft would not consider living here until well after he retired. Eaton Square was much easier to secure. The townhouse had total coverage with alarms and security, and even a number of panic rooms. This place was too big and sprawling to comprehensively guard.

He'd have to station someone, anyway, as soon as possible; but for now, there was just him and a useless disobedient puppy. 

He tied Sinbad firmly up to a tree, then taking his handgun, (which are of course completely illegal to possess in the UK unless you are, in fact, the British Government) from the concealed shoulder holster and loading it. Dressing in a full formal suit on the hottest of days was not always for show, it transpires, it is also useful to conceal that which might otherwise alarm the public. 

Mycroft stepped gingerly onto the deck of the houseboat. It rocked a little. He felt a damp feeling and looked glumly down at his shoes, watching them rapidly filling with water and covered in green stuff. Three hundred pounds of finest Italian leather, and handmade craftsmanship, now soaked and further embellished by lacework of algae. Today was not going well. Legwork. He shuddered.

Silently, he moved towards the slatted saloon doors giving access to the main i  
interior space of the houseboat. Unlocked. Interesting. Opened one door slowly, gun poised, and looked in. Expecting to find it empty, or with a random junkie, escaped from a Bath hostel, ensconced within.

The place was a complete mess. Not just an abandoned, forgotten mess, but a real chaotic, stinking mess. 

Then he saw the start of a trail of syringes. 

He tried to stay calm. That wasn't normally a problem for Mycroft, even in the most stressful situations, but now.....now he would admit that he struggled. It's just a druggie, a random one, he told himself. They came here to shelter and shoot up. Maybe recently. That's all Sinbad smelt. Nothing significant. Nothing to see here. Move along now, brain.

His brain wouldn't move along. It leapt to thoughts. Thoughts of him.

He. 

He. No. Couldn't be.

He wouldn't come here. Not to the Manor. Never here. Of all places? Surely?

He walked over to the door of the main cabin. And opened it. And of course, there, lying on the bed, less than a mile from the building he swore he would never come within ten miles of, and of his newborn son; was his beloved little junkie brother. Of course he was. 

Off his face on drugs. Needles just everywhere, like PikupStix floating, some of them. Huge bloody parcel of drugs on the shelf; coke and heroin it looked like, presumably he'd been mixing them then? Had clearly reached such a stage, that the powder was just spilling out, spoiling, and dropping onto the floor unheeded. No treasured measured wraps here. Just dirty chemical snow, scattered absolutely everywhere. Chaos.

Christ. Sherlock. Not again. Not this, again?

How did he get the money for this? Those drugs, that quantity, would have cost thousands? Mycroft didn't know about the woodcuts. Didn't know that Grand-mere told Sherlock not to tell Mycroft about them, because then Mycroft would know that Sherlock was her favourite, her little "etoile". In reality, her spoiled little alter ego, that she didn't see wasn't capable of handling her indulgence, and who had no concept of limits. She wasn't to blame for the other, of course. She didn't know that he would be targeted by Jonathon Lang. No one did... Nor that he was already more mentally fragile a personality than she had ever been, no matter how similar they appeared on the surface.

.................

But now Mycroft was on alert. Something was wrong. More wrong than usual, even. 

The needle was still in Sherlock's arm. He was unconscious, not just high.

OD. He's OD'd. 

Mycroft never panicked and he didn't do so outwardly now, but he was terrified.  
He could face Sherlock's death, but he couldn't watch him die. He couldn't do that twice with a brother.....

Sherlock was unresponsive when Mycroft tried to rouse him. Christ, he was cold. And so, so, thin. Like those pictures of anorexia victims who didn't make it, beautiful beautiful precious people turned into shadows. All the work John had done with the eating, all that exercise Sherlock had done, the riding, the fencing, the swimming. All for naught, it seemed. 

When Mycroft pulled Sherlock into a sitting position, he found there was literally nothing of him. He was so light, it was like picking up a child. A freezing unconscious child, with barely a heartbeat, and a dried trail of drool coming from a corner of his mouth. His breaths were like those little air puffers Mycroft used in order to clean dust from his computer keyboard's less accessible crevices. Barely there at all.

Mycroft put away the gun, and pulled out his phone to call for an ambulance. Then he called his parents; Mummy, not Daddy. She'd need to make sure Daddy stayed calm with his heart not being so good, and as expected, Mummy took it calmly. Mummy was the coolest of all of the cucumbers, anyway, and as Mycroft stuttered out the news, she just sounded relieved that Sherlock was found, and still alive, however tenuously. 

She said she wouldn't tell Daddy yet, and they would stay here and look after Baby with Kirsty. Mycroft didn't dare tell her he wasn't going to the hospital either, couldn't explain to him mother that he couldn't bear to witness this any more without breaking down himself, which obviously, obviously, could not ever be permitted to happen.

...............

Mycroft, realising the paramedics wouldn't be able to work in the tiny cabin, took a deep breath, and scooped up his brother in his arms. He weighed nothing, but it was still impossibly awkward with the low ceiling and slippery slimy leaning floor. He staggered up the steps at last, bursting out the cabin doors and out onto the deck, slipping on the green slime and weeds, and lurched them over the side of the boat, and back onto dry land. 

They lay slumped on the grass. Mycroft had to clamp down on his lower lip to stop the trembling, and control his breathing and his thoughts. Because in those vivid thoughts he was now seventeen again, and it was the eleven year old William in his arms, the boy who Mycroft loved above all others and who wanted to die. As Sherlock had once himself thought, now Mycroft thought it too; it was so many years to have passed to have come so short a distance from it......

The morning was sunny now, the pale and watery bright sun seeming to mock them and clash hatefully with the darkness of their situation. The pair waited for the ambulance, Sherlock slumped against his brothers chest, needle still protruding from his arm as Mycroft didn't dare to withdraw it for fear of the consequences; regaining consciousness, but only long enough to briefly rave and shout and moan, then just as quickly sinking back. The only coherent word Mycroft could make out was a single strangled moan of 'John!' 

Sherlock woke just once more, looking lucid just for a few precious seconds, and silently touched Mycroft's face, tears running down his own. Then descending away again, back down into his own world of nothing and silence. 

Mycroft put his face right next to Sherlock's and said, loudly, trying to keep his voice from cracking, into his ear:  
'Sherlock. John is alive. He is alive. He needs to see you. You need to come back now. Don't go away. Come back, stay with us. Think about John.' 

He didn't mention the baby. He knew that held no value for Sherlock. Maybe even the reverse. Instead, he held his brother closer to him than he had in twenty-five years, embracing him hard, wrapping his own suit jacket around him tightly, and huffing breaths onto Sherlock's head and face to try to warm him up. Blasted ambulance, why did they take so fucking long??? Mycroft never swore. He swore now. 

..................

Kirsty came down to fetch Sinbad, and took him away just before the paramedics arrived with the ambulance. Her face had blanched white-pale at the sight of Sherlock, but Mycroft had just shook his head at her not to say anything, and she ran off with the puppy back to the Manor, clearly distraught, her hand cupped over her mouth. When she got to the house she put the puppy in his crate and, pushing past Cook in a most uncharacteristic way, went straight up to the baby, picked him up and held him tightly to her, tears rolling down her cheeks.

The ambulance arrived, at long last. Mycroft was shivering and in shock, and was unable to move and simply watched, dazed, as the paramedics forcibly unfurled his fingers from their grip on his brothers body, and then, still just as dazed, saw them load up and the ambulance begin to take Sherlock down the rutted track and back to the house, and then onwards to the hospital. It was about eight miles, door to door. The A4 got choked at this time of day, but Mycroft, before the soaking wet chill had come over him, and his mind had partially frozen, had arranged a police escort and their blues and twos should get them through the gridlock on the Upper Bristol Road. 

He wasn't going this time. Anthea was tasked to give him the updates. He couldn't stand to watch his brother die. If he died this time, he would do it alone.

He was staying here with his nephew, who had no functioning parents. John and Sherlock must fight their own fight, to regain their health, and then regain the right to be parents to this child. In the meantime, Mycroft was here for the baby. He strode back to the house, and wordlessly took the child from a grateful Kirsty. She was still visibly upset and made herself scarce, and he sat in the nursing chair, cradling his nephew tightly in his lap. He did not cry. 

He'd had years of that, long ago, in the earlier echo of this morning, and there was nothing left in him to cry now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Saxon church in Bradford on Avon is a small and perfect jewel, visit it if you can. Bradford on Avon itself is a tiny town clinging to the hillside like a small Italianate Georgian gem. There are mob-capped waitresses in the cramped but cake-filled Victorian tea rooms down by the ancient bridge. And the canal boats. And the river. Yes, I am generally Fond. (And I did once find a small healthy elm tree).  
> http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Laurence's_Church,_Bradford-on-Avon
> 
> Sherlock at one point thinks of 'ensured release'. This is a phrase from the A.E. Housman poem "Parta Quies", no XLVIII of More Poems. The rest of the poem is also apposite for the houseboat scene.


	16. Hospital

When John finally awoke after his operation, and that took some time, the op alone having lasted over seven hours; there was no one in his hospital room except Harry. 

She sat next to the bed, flicking through a creased copy of yesterday's "Times" newspaper, frowning at some story about Putin, and some new laws he'd brought in to outlaw just about everything except saying very nice things about Putin. She was casually drawing a tiny dick on the photo of the Russian president, and dressing him in a Biro drawn T shirt with the slogan "Cumslut (in Denial)".....

She can't have been reading the paper too closely, or concentrating on her amateur attempts at obscene graffiti, because she noticed John stir slightly, and blink rapidly, and smack his lips in a puzzled fashion; and she immediately called the nurse. Who in turn called in the doctor. You can do that, when you're paying as much as Mycroft Holmes was, just like he did after the Barbican siege, for them to look after the mysterious (Soldier? but not at Selly Oak as injured soldiers would normally be?) John Hamish Watson. 

The nurse came; and then Harry was asked to leave the room for a while, by the quite attractive but very serious looking woman doctor. She thought about arguing, knowing there was stuff she hadn't been told, sensing it. She knew John's arm was really bad, but that was all she did know. Maybe they had bad news about that? Maybe there was other stuff; stuff she wasn't being told? 

But the doctor didn't look as though she would tolerate any shit from Harry, and unlike the waitress (Tara, lovely-breasted Tara.....), this woman didn't activate Harry's impeccable gaydar, and so she conceded defeat, and went to have a much longed-for fag or twenty outside the building. She joined a motley bunch of patients and visitors, huddled out of the wind in a dirty but sheltered corner. None of them took her eye, so she faced away from them and concentrated on maximising the drag from her Marlboro Lights.

.............

John's navy blue eyes were properly open now. Looking alarmed and pained. The doctor sat next to his bed. Wet a cotton bud and wiped it over John's cracked, dry lips.

'John. Hallo. Do you know where you are?'

He looked up and around. White. White everywhere. Metal bed. Beeping machines. Yep. He knew where he was. I mean, he thought, I was a doctor and all, but it didn't take that to recognise a hospital.

'Uh, um, hospital I think. London?' He grimaced, hard, and frowned, and the doctor saw the shooting pain flash across his face, and immediately increased the morphine dose further.

'Lie your head back down, John, just for now, for me? Little bit more? Good. Yes, that's right. You are in hospital. Although it's in Bath, actually, not London. Fresher air for you. Good. And do you know why you are here?'

'I, ahh, I smashed my arm in the crash - the chopper - it came down - a missile : and then. Then.....I was a prisoner. The others, they were - all of them. Not. 

All...just gone. Just me then. Alone. My arm was really bad, I know it was. Didn't get treated. Got infected. Stank. Everything stank. The smell. I couldn't look. I don't know if.....'

John looked down for the first time. Saw a cast, not a pinned and empty sleeve.

'Oh, God, thank you. Thank you.'

He breathed out hard, in short, puffing breaths. Reached across with his other hand to touch the cast, to make sure it was real. The doctor put her hand on his shoulder. 

Uh oh, he thought. Not out of the woods yet, then. Not with the kindly hand-on-shoulder routine.

'You could still lose it. But you haven't yet. But there was gangrene, John, they had to cut away a lot of infected tissue to save your arm. It was very borderline, even then. It's....it's not going to be the best looking thing, John. Like a shark attacked you, with big lumps out of it. Properly disfigured. I just want to be really straight with you about that, so that you can come to terms with it. And there will also be some loss of functionality. Minor, we hope.'

'I don't care.' John shook his head vigorously. I just want to keep the damn thing,'

He frowned again. There was something else. The doctor was looking at him sort of funny. Sympathetic, too sympathetic? Like he himself did, before he doled out really bad news to patients. He knew there was more, then, but he couldn't think what.

...............

The doctor sat down now. Looked at John. A concerned look. Heck. 

Do you remember anything else, anything at all, about what happened to you, John?'

It was the gentleness in the doctor's voice that was actually unbearable, and ultimately it was that, which now brought it all flooding back........

'I was beaten. A lot. And kicked. And.' His voice trailed off. He frowned. 

A long pause. He was thinking, remembering things he'd blocked out to protect himself. Now it came back in a rush, a searing film reel, running too fast, then stopping at all the worst parts, then zooming in on the very, very worst. Himself both a helpless onlooker, and the participant, all at once. 

He looked down, then looked away. Remembered now. Yep. All of it. Bit his lip and struggled to control himself. His voice came out in a half-whispered tone.

'And. I was raped.' 

A flat, quiet, John voice, no emotion. Controlled. Fury and pain compressed so tight the words would barely form.

The hand on his shoulder tightened slightly in a squeeze. Acknowledging, supporting.

'Yes. That's right, John. All those things. That's all what happened. I'm very sorry. 

Your recall is really good, John, I know it's very hard to have to recall this stuff, but it's much better that you can do it now, instead of suppressing and delaying it. It will help, I promise, later. And I want you to know, that the rapist has been identified and apparently is in....some type of custody. I hope that helps a little.'

'Yeah....no', said John, turning away a little, not wanting to see the doctors face. 'Maybe it will help, later. It doesn't now, if I'm honest.'

Now he was quiet, processing his thoughts. Not coming to terms. That would take much, much longer. Just organising his thoughts, in a mind that didn't have the benefit of a Mind Palace.

Then he frowned again.

'Were there any.....injuries from the....it?' 

John had seen the results of male rape. Only once. That was enough. He knew what it could do.

'Yes, there were, you were bleeding, internally, quite a bit. We needed to put in five stitches. They've been done. And antibiotics, big dose of antiretrovirals, of course, all that. But everything should heal well, in time. Bloods have gone for testing obviously.'

(A visible wince)

'Yeah, well. Thanks. Knowing he's caught does help with some of it. Everything except my memories of it, I guess, and there's nothing much you can do about that. Sorry. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I am incredibly grateful. Especially about the arm.'

'That's fine, John. You're doing really good. You'll be in here for a while yet until we are sure the arm is going to go the right way, infection wise. At least a week, probably. Try and rest. Liquids only, though, I'm afraid, because of, well, you know..... the.......stitches.'

John winced again. Yeah. He knew.

................

As she got up to leave, John asked the only question on his mind besides the grisly fate of his arm. 

'Doctor? Harry, my sister, is here, I saw her, but where is Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?'

The doctor just shook her head, and said 

'I'm afraid I really don't know, John'. 

And she left; quickly, and left John to wonder why she had looked so stricken when he had asked? She had clearly recognised the name, and he didn't think the worried look was from the blog, or their fame and notoriety, that had pretty much died down now.

He was starting to feel really shitty and low now, stuck with nothing to do except to relive the memories of his horrific ordeal, and racked by deep worry about where Sherlock was. He switched on the TV instead, and with gallows humour, found the most depressing documentary he could find, which was one on cannibalistic serial killers. It cheered him up, a little, knowing it could have been worse.....well, it didn't really; but he could kid himself. That was all he could do, pretty much. Pretend it was OK.

.............

Harry came back to John's room soon afterwards. She looked conflicted. John guessed she was torn between her intense relief at his still being alive, and anger at his deception about what he'd been up to, as well as his association with people she blamed for putting him in harm's way yet again. The latter probably winning out: she was a Watson after all, a family mostly made up of essence of coiled angry. She smelt of fags, and now also of booze, which she must have had on her, and deep abiding resentment.

He got his verbal blows in first. Switched off the melodramatic daytime fare on the telly. Sighed.

'Yes I wanted to go. No, I don't blame Mycroft for what happened. Yes, I know about my arm.' He wasn't going to mention the rest of it. Harry didn't need to know. Would never need to know. No one did, except the doctors and Holmes clan.

'Calm down, little brother. Just chill. I was going to say all that stuff, but I know it's totally pointless. It's like a cult, the Holmes lot. You're too far gone in their levels of indoctrination to know what normal life and people are like any more, so it doesn't register when they treat you like shit. 

Speaking of which, I just saw the biggest shit out of them all.'

'Mycroft? He might be able to tell me where the hell Sherlock is? No one will tell me why he isn't here.'

'I can tell you exactly why he isn't here John. It was him I saw. Shite-Meister Número Uno. Sherlock. 

So let me tell you, John. He isn't here with you, John, because instead of being here, looking after you, where he bloody should be; he's OD'd after countless days of being missing, and using heroin and coke, in combination for fuck's sake, and is currently being resuscitated. Or they're trying to, it didn't look as though they were having a lot of luck when they rushed him past me on a trolley. Honestly. That man. After all the ......'

Harry sounded more like his mother than she ever had at that moment.

John utterly exploded with worry and pain and grief.

'Okay. That's enough. Fucking hell Harry! Get out. Get out of my fucking room!'

'What? What do you mean?'

'I mean, get the fuck out! 'That shit', as you put it, is as you well know, my partner, my boyfriend, my lover. My whatever. 

And, Harry: whilst I agree that going back to drugs isn't a great life choice, and you, Harry, should know all about substance abuse because I can SMELL the booze on you, you have literally no bloody idea at all of the pressures he's been under. Even before I went missing. You know NOTHING about what that man has gone through, and goes through daily. Who knows where his head is at? 

Now. I'm obviously going to have a hell of a lot of questions to ask him about this - and I hope to God, Harry, that I get the chance to, and that he doesn't fucking die, today, alone in that ICU - but if you really want to help me, if you really do care so very much, can I suggest you actually do help and get me Mycroft Holmes here now. Yesterday. NOW. 

Oh yes. And do not EVER refer to Sherlock like that again. In my hearing or out of it. Or we are done, Harry. Finished. For good.'

Harry was so shocked she just mutely nodded, rose, and left the room. As she walked away towards the exit, she thought about it all.

.............

John was surprisingly forgiving of Sherlock and the drugs, Harry thought. Strange.

She didn't know, it never occurred to her, she couldn't know; that not only did John feel horrified and ashamed of his treatment of Sherlock before recent events, of his....forcing him; but John's own subsequent rape at the hands of his captor, had magnified that self awareness and shame to such an extent that whatever Sherlock did, however far he pushed him, John would forgive it all. Anything. Even the drugs, this time. Anything.

Harry knew none of this, and so the reasons for her brother's actions and his reactions were closed off to her. She shrugged, and shook her head, and resigned herself to another, hopefully temporary rift between them. 

................

Mycroft knew he should be there, really, at the hospital with his brother. His parents were coping with the baby and Kirsty was proving more than competent. 

So when the terse phone call came, from a brittle sounding (and drunk) Harry Watson, who didn't take kindly to Mycroft's addressing her as 'Dear Lady' and his enquiries after the health of the delightful Mrs Watson (whom he knew on good authority was a cow of the first degree); Mycroft was already packing the car. Just some essentials for Sherlock which might be useful, nightwear, dressing gown, toiletries.....if he survived long enough to make use of them........and the stuffed bee, now dried out, but still smelling of the river and with its fur sticking up in stiff clumps.

He arrived at the hospital less than half an hour later, and headed first to the ICU. 

There was no one else there, waiting to find out Sherlock's condition. It was so different than previously, and it wasn't just that they were out in Bath and not in London. Friends, colleagues, had aged, found partners, and drifted away and made new lives which were stabler, and gentler, and didn't involve always having to drop everything to run after a mad detective. Because the mad detective was fine now, settled with his Doctor, so they thought? A baby too. What could be better? Everything neat and cosy.

They don't know the bloody half of it, thought Mycroft.

He knew some, though not all, of this, was down to him. His failure to produce an heir being instantly forgotten, so long as Sherlock could be made to perform. He'd thought though, that despite his brother's hostility, that the baby would be good for Sherlock, make him a man, make him embrace responsibility? Give him something to love that didn't judge him, and didn't have the power to harm him. It hadn't really panned out like that. 

But Mycroft, despite his brother lying and perhaps now dying on a trolley, couldn't regret his decision, not even the blackmail. Not when there was that tiny azure-eyed, dark-mopped little life waiting back at the Manor. How could anyone regret that?

Unless of course. Unless it really did cost Sherlock his life; finally pushed him over the edge.

Maybe a dog would have been a wiser choice? Sinbad could be dognapped and could have loved Sherlock.......But then Mycroft would have to live with his own failures.

Mycroft knew he wasn't a good man. He didn't know what he would do, if his actions and his schemes proved the final straw for his brother. How he could look his nephew in the eye?

The voice in his head spoke his thoughts......

'Sherlock, you have to live. I can't regret what I did, not that dear, dear baby; but if it kills you, I can't live with it. I can live with you hating me and ignoring me, but I can't live without you being there, just out there somewhere in the world, being you.'

He sat down heavily on one of the less uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room, and rubbed his face with his hands, and loosened his tie.

..................

 

The doctor came along the corridor. 

He stopped at the doorway. Looked at his bulging clipboard.

'Mr Holmes? Doctor Gordon. I'm treating Sherlock Holmes.'

'You say that in the present tense, Doctor. May I take it my brother is still with us?'

'You may....... now. It was close, extremely close, a few hours back, we had to perform CPR several times, thankfully he eventually responded, and he's relatively stable now. Medically that is. He is also now awake. However, there are some things I need to warn you of....'

'My brother has overdosed a number of times Doctor, I'm sure I ..'

'It is a little different this time. We think there was some contamination with the drugs? Possibly the drugs themselves, or possibly environmental contamination? It's hard to be sure at this stage though we have samples of the drugs to test to rule that in or out. Anyway. The effect is that your brother isn't going through a straightforward withdrawal from the drugs. 

There appears to be a significant, and we don't know how long it might last, element of depression and confusion. As a result, please don't expect his reactions to be those you would normally expect. It might be upsetting when you see him. Bear in mind he's not himself. 

In addition he's extremely weak from both the malnutrition and also quite a serious onset of pneumonia. Both of which mean he isn't entirely out of the woods.

Mycroft took a deep breath. 

'I'm ready.' He knew how deeply Sherlock had been struggling before this episode, which these doctors didn't.

He opened the door quietly.

...................

Sherlock was in a small single room, propped up on large white pillows. He was conscious, and his eyes were open, but they were unfocused. His breathing was shallow and laboured, and there was an oxygen mask, and a drip. The white hospital gown hung off him as if there was nothing except a skeleton holding it up. Probably because there wasn't much more.

Sherlock shook visibly as the door opened, and Mycroft walked into the room. He looks terrified, Mycroft thought. Terrified of his own brother. Terrified of me.

Mycroft sat down beside the bed. Sherlock was staring at him. Suddenly, masks of glassy fear crossed his face, and he began to moan softly. 

'Dont kill me too.......You killed Yuri and the others! I don't have the codes. I never had the codes. I'm just a temporary computer contractor. Just earning money, supporting my wife and kids, you know, just doing a job.......'

He sounded petrified. Like someone had a gun to his head. They probably had done, when he'd made this speech for real, Mycroft knew that from his monitoring. That one had been one of the tighter spots for his brother.

'Sherlock'?

Mycroft leaned forward. It sounded like Sherlock had rebooted his brain to sometime during his two year absence after the Fall. So: - not deluded, making stuff up, more just a total mental mix-up, masking current distress with other periods of stress and suffering.

He needed to re-calibrate him. Reassure him.

He employed his softest voice, the one he used on winter nights at the Manor, when Sherlock would sit on his bed in his bee pyjamas and suck his thumb, (which Mummy told him off for, but Mycroft seemed to quite like), and Mycroft would read him the Paddington Bear stories. 

'Sherlock. You're safe. You're in hospital in Bath. You're safe. I'm your brother, Mycroft.'

'Mycroft'?

Sherlocks voice was thin and faint. 

How do I know you are real? You're not real. I know where I am, what you're doing, Mycroft isn't here. No one is here. Just me, and the cell, and the men.....'

Mycroft took a deep breath. Put his mouth next to Sherlock's ear. 

'Listen, Sherlock. Listen to me. Nothing else. Just listen, Lockie Bee.'

Mycroft spoke...softly.....so softly......

Sherlock seemed to be listening. This might work.

"Mr and Mrs Brown first met Paddington on a railway platform. 

In fact, that was how he came to have such an unusual name for a bear, for Paddington was the name of the railway station....."

He trailed off as he saw the reaction start. Sherlock's face crumbled from terror into soft childlike pallor. Tears ran down his cheeks. 

'Myc? It's really you? Hold me.'

Mycroft grasped his brother gently round the waist. Tried not to blanch at the protruding bones which were all he could feel.

'Its really me, I'm here, Sherlock. Everything is fine.'

There was a pause as confusion gave way to real life. Sherlock started to look more normal now, but visibly distressed. Coughing violently.

'Mycroft. Did I miss it?'

'Did you miss what?'

Mycroft stroked Sherlock's cheek softly. Brushed his fingers through his still sodden hair, the dark curls plastered on his head.

'John. John's service - funeral, memorial, whatever. Did I miss it? I didn't want to miss it, Myc. I wanted to be there for him.'

An extra large tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek. It was huge, like the scale of the grief on his face.

'No, no, Sherlock, you didn't miss it.' Mycroft was trying to work out the best way to deal with this one.

A confused shadow passed across Sherlock's face. He didn't understand anything. Nothing, now. He might regress back. Mycroft needed to get him focusing.

Mycroft cupped his brother's thin face in his hands.

'Sherlock. John isn't dead. He's alive. He's being treated in this hospital. We got him out of the rebel camp this morning. He's alive, Sherlock. Injured but alive.'

There was complete silence. Sherlock had closed his eyes tightly, screwed up like a baby bird. With his hair all messed up from tossing and turning, he looked rather like a baby bird all over. Dependent, and starved, and unhappy about both.

Then he opened his pale eyes suddenly. Hope sparked in them.

..................

Mycroft felt it would be better if he told him the bad news as well, quickly. 

'His arm is in a bad way, Sherlock. They thought he might lose it, but it looks now like it will be saved, but they've had to cut big chunks away. It was badly broken in the crash and untreated and gangrene got a hold.'

Sherlock nodded and waved his hand in the air as though this was irrelevant. Limbs. Transport. Though he knew at the back of his confused mind, that a John needed two good arms for his John-work. And that he loved his work, and he would not find this easy.

'They beat him as well. Badly. He's got some - well, a lot, of injuries from that too.'

Another nod and shrug. Army man. Not an issue. John was strong. John would be fine. John could take anything.

'There's something else, Sherlock. Something bad.' 

Eyes open a little now, a narrow sliver of grey green regarding Mycroft with suspicion. Listening now, properly, for the first time looking something like Sherlock.

Mycroft spoke quickly.

'He was raped by one of his captors, Sherlock, fairly shortly before we got him out. He's needed stitches.'

Sherlock looked completely shattered. He stared at the ground. Just stared for a long, long time. Breathed slowly and heavily. Then nodded, as though he was having an internal conversation with himself. 

.................

Finally, he looked up at Mycroft with new loathing. 

'Why did it take so long for you to send in the rescue team? Why did you leave him there, for this to happen? It didn't happen until right at the end, it can't have, you could have got him out way earlier. It didn't need to happen at all. Why, Mycroft?' 

'Sherlock you know I...'

Sherlock stared up at his brother's face. Conflicted hate and love flashing across his own.

'What was the point of all these rescues, all these hero acts? All these years, Mycroft, dragging me up out of the gutters, if all it ends in, all you finish up with; is you leaving the man I love at the mercy of unhinged fucking extremists so long that he almost dies and is raped by them? 

Why did you even take the time, to bother to pretend to care back then, in order to destroy me, us, now? Get out. Leave. Now. And send in a nurse or doctor. I need to see John. NOW. Make it happen. Just do what you do best. It's all you're good for. I don't even want to look at you.' 

Mycroft said nothing more, just frowned, picked up his coat and umbrella, and left; having still not told his younger brother that he was a father of a solemn, week old, baby boy. 

There was no point speaking with his brother now. He should not take his words to heart, he told himself. He wasn't himself. He was hurting for John and his own pain.

Before he left the room, however, he placed the stuffed bee toy on the chair by the bed. As he closed the door, he saw a spindly white track-marked arm reach out and take it.

.................

Nobody was quite sure what Sherlock Holmes said to the nurses and doctors in the next thirty minutes, or what Mycroft Holmes said, or did, but after that point Sherlock was no longer regarded as disturbed, just very depressed and very angry. He was duly wheeled to John'sroom, despite still being hooked up to oxygen and using a breathing mask.

The orderly pushed his chair into the room and wisely and quietly, very quickly withdrew. 

John was conscious but groggy. But the moment he heard a sound and turned his head and saw Sherlock, he crashed, and burst into deep groaning racking sobs, that seemed to come from his body's core; and after they finally died away, the two men stared at each other. Sherlock wheeled closer, his oxygen cylinder hooked to the back of his chair, and then gripped John's small hand with his enormous own.

'John.'

He had to remove the oxygen mask to speak. The pneumonia had been worse than they thought and it would take time for his breathing to be easy. His voice was broken and quiet. 

They stared at each other like they could not believe what they were seeing.

'Mycroft told me what happened.' 

John looked away.

'Oh. Yeah. Right. Good. Well. Did he....ahh....did he.......tell you. Sherlock? Tell you, everything?'

Sherlock looked at John with aching love and pain. His eye contact never dropped away, never wavered. He nodded very, very slowly and very deliberately. To let John know. That he knew.

He took a deep racking breath, then had a coughing fit and had to bring the oxygen mask attached to the tank on his wheelchair to his face for a minute or more.

He tried again.

'He told me you were beaten, and that your arm is a total mess. 

And. 

And he - he - told me. He told me. That you were raped.' 

John looked at him just with a flickering look of utter pain, and then looked down. How could he expect sympathy from Sherlock, given what had gone on between them.

'Perhaps I deserved ....'

He was interrupted. By a Sherlock who had tears running freely down his cheeks. Some sociopath, John couldn't help thinking. Some fucking sociopath. They should see him now, all of them. Call him a freak and a sociopath now, would you? Bastards.

'You did not deserve any of it, John. It bears no relation to our ....incident. You were their prisoner. You had a badly broken arm. A raging fever. For God's sake. He knew that and he still raped you. Our.......... thing, John, it was bad, yes, it was, but I never feared for my life, I could maybe have left if I'd wanted to, in fact I'm sure I could have, and you wouldn't have stopped me, and you regretted it immediately. And, I forgave you. 

No. Relation. John. Remember that. Always.' 

Sherlock's voice was now merely a whisper. Wheezing. More oxygen.

.................

John was sombre again. He was glad of Sherlock's words but couldn't deal with Sherlock's caring. He didn't want to talk about it. Tried to turn the conversation away from the subject. He wasn't ready to discuss it more.

'My arm's going to have great chunks out of it, like Jaws has got hold of me. Not a very nice sight. Maybe not fully functional. Will you cope with that?'

'I thought you were dead, John. You were left for it. A half chewed arm is a great result as far as I can see. Besides, it will be helpful for my experiments on....'

John looked at him, as though seeing him afresh now. 

'No experiments, ok? Not on this. Not for a long time. What about you, though? I thought you were safe under Mycroft's wing? That he would take care of you if something happened to me, something like this. I wouldn't have gone on the mission at all if I'd thought there was a risk this might happen to you? What happened to the food parcels and Mycroft coming round? What bloody happened, Sherlock?

Sherlock's face darkened. He looked frightening. Murderous, almost, John thought. But not towards John. No. His anger was directed at his brother.

'He left you there, John. He saw there was only one possible survivor of the crash, and thought they'd probably shot you too, off camera, and his political masters didn't want the fallout; and he either couldn't or wouldn't fight them. He really does live that principle, whatever the fallout. It's ruthless, just utterly bloody ruthless. I used to think I was like him, but I'm not really, I just hadn't found anyone I cared enough about to make that choice a hard one. And he told me it was best like that, not to care, because he thought I'd been hurt enough. But it just hurts more that way in the end, for me.

Anyway, that's what he did. Caved in the face of political face-saving, and left you to die. So no-one came for you, no-one was going to come for you, and when they told me they weren't going to send a team in, I lost the plot completely, and did a runner and tried to kill myself by ever increasing doses of speedballs. Coke and heroin. Nearly did, too.' 

Sherlock looked ashamed then. His hands were starting to shake and he was growing paler.

John tipped Sherlock's head up with his one good hand, and looked into his eyes.

'It doesn't matter. 

So fucking what. 

Don't be ashamed. If you think I'm dead, of course you're going to relapse. So would anyone, in that situation, if only they had access to the stuff you do?

It doesn't mean you've lost the battle to be clean outside that scenario, do you understand? I'm just glad you didn't go straight for suicide.'

Sherlock shook his head.

'I considered it. For some days. Trying to decide the best method. But the craving for the drugs won out, and it seemed like it would end the same way in any case. And I was too troubled by the effect on whoever found me, with some of the other methods.'

Sherlock was thanking heaven. John wasn't angry about the drugs. How was he not angry?

...........................

 

'So where were you?'

John was curious as to how Sherlock had evaded his pursuers so completely.

'Holmes Manor.'

'What?'

John was completely astounded.

'Fucking hell, Sherlock. You said you'd never go there, because it was so traumatic for you? What changed?'

'Nothing changed. It still was, and it still is. It probably always will be. But I had to have a really cast-iron place to hide. And the only place I could think of that no one, no one at all, would ever think of looking for me, was there. Hiding in plain sight. It's always the best disguise.

And I didn't go near the house. That would have been a step too far. I was on the old houseboat on the river, at the bottom of the grounds. Mycroft found me.....I'd overdosed......'

Sherlock heard a small tapping sound, and looked up at the small glass panel in the door to the room.

'....speaking of which, here he is. The man with no soul and no heart. He's lucky you're bed-bound, John, and that I'm too weak to take him on, because I'd like to rip his head off.'

............

Mycroft came into the room warily, knowing that both the casualties it contained, had either already threatened to kill him (Sherlock) or had fairly good justification to try (John).

But he had to come now, to talk to the two men. It was time to tell them, and it couldn't be put off any longer. 

But first, he knew he had some apologies to make. This didn't happen often for Mycroft Holmes, and it didn't come naturally. The last time he had apologised, had needed to apologise, was to Sherlock, via John; just before the Fall, for leaking details about Sherlock's life to Moriarty. 

He sat down a safe distance from Sherlock, watching his brother out of the corner of his eye, and spoke to John first. 

.................

'I want to apologise to you, John, for not initially believing you were likely to still be alive, and consequently not pushing harder for an extraction team to be sent in to get you out of that hell. Whilst there wasn't political support for doing so, I should also have considered a private venture by the family, earlier than I did. 

I really am so very sorry, John. I also fully appreciate, in the ways that someone looking in from outside can only ever partially do, the consequences of my delay in respect of the assaults that you suffered. 

My only consolation is that you have, finally, been rescued, and that you are here to, I hope in turn, rescue my brother from his downward spiral.' 

John looked at him. 

'It's not your fault, Mycroft. I wanted to go; my decision. And it was the man who raped me, who is responsible for that; no one else. Him. 

It would have been better to have not happened, and I don't know how it will affect me, other than knowing it will be hard, but you did get me out eventually, and I might not have got even that if I'd been Joe Public, so I have to recognise that a Holmes connection isn't entirely a disadvantage in this whole mess. 

I also have to be aware that what I went through was no worse than that suffered by the women and children we were there trying to protect. I just wish we'd been able to do more. And that the ones we were evacuating on that trip had made it....'

He bit his lip, and came to a halt.

Mycroft smiled at him. A very relieved man, and one looking as if the burden of guilt was partially lifted from his shoulders.

'Thankyou, John. That is very gracious of you, and I can assure you, your conduct and service will not be forgotten.'

...............

He turned to Sherlock. He could feel the animosity and venom exuding from his brother, who he loved above all things. Above his parents, above Wasim, above even his country.....

'I am sorry, brother, that I did not get John out as soon as I potentially could have done. And that you understandably concluded as a result, that I had abandoned him. You have Mummy to thank for making me see the error of this decision. '

Sherlock merely scowled at him.

'I concluded it, solely because it was true, Mycroft. You HAD abandoned him. Totally. Don't weasel word me. It doesn't work. You weren't planning to get him out at all, until Mummy went all alpha on you.'

Mycroft had no reply. He simply bowed his head, in acknowledgement. What Sherlock said was true, although harsh, since it had taken Mummy's special influence to swing the rescue. It was hard to take, but he knew Sherlock was not in the mood for fine distinctions and hair splitting. And he could not take a full blown Sherlock attack on his fragile emotions today.

Luckily for Mycroft, Sherlock then experienced a coughing fit, requiring more oxygen. This allowed Mycroft to gather his reserves for the next part of this difficult and delicate conversation.

.......................

 

Mycroft took a deep breath. He didn't know why neither man in front of him had yet said a word about the baby? They must know it was likely to have been born by now? John, well, you could understand it with him. Not his child, he'd recently been raped and beaten almost to death, and nearly lost a limb. Witnessing the murder of innocent casualties. Probably still in deep delayed shock. 

John, yes, that was completely understandable.

But Sherlock? 

Not a word, not a hint of a question or an interest? 

A cold feeling spread down Mycroft's spine. He hadn't really thought it would go like this? There'd been lots of conversations at Holmes Manor which could be summarised as 'it'll take time but once he sees the baby......'; 'what man wouldn't love his own child'; 'it'll finally make a man of him'. 

None of these cosy conversations had taken place in Sherlock's presence, with his input, with his consent, but they assumed that the existence of the child, the reality of it, would change his mindset. It hadn't happened yet. That tiny voice at the back of Mycroft's head asked him again whether what he had done in relation to the baby project had really been fair to Sherlock? 

That voice was silenced quickly by the man with the umbrella. He was still going to have to tell them..... Interested or not, there was a child's future at stake, and the current situation was not sustainable.

He cleared his throat. Sherlock, who had been gazing like a lovesick puppy at John, all doe-eyes and oxygen mask rasping, turned his attention onto Mycroft, and narrowed his eyes. Waited for the bombshell. Though Sherlock had deduced perfectly well what it would be. Drug addict he might be, but he was still Sherlock Holmes, and this was the news he had dreaded, and knew must come as day follows night.

'Sherlock, John, you also have Mummy to thank for one other thing. She is on babysitting duty today. For your son, Sherlock. He is a week old, and it would be very good for him to meet his father before he gets too much older.'

................

Mycroft stopped to let that one sink in.

John looked amazed and stunned and frankly overwhelmed, but recovered himself and quickly looked over worriedly at Sherlock. 

He was right to be worried. Sherlock didn't look at all surprised, but despite this, his face was glazed over again now, fast retreating mentally from them both. It reminded John of that time with the skull, and he definitely wasn't making that mistake again.

John needed to work fast.

'Mycroft, where is the baby now?'

'At Holmes Manor. We've prepared the Dower House out in the grounds, we thought that Sherlock might be able to cope better there. Not the main house, naturally. But we would also be able to bring the baby here, before you two are released from hospital, if you would like that?

'Sherlock, what do you think?'

John was torn. He now realised how desperate he was to meet the child. Sherlock's son, yet knew it could spell disaster for Sherlock's precarious mental state. 

There was a long pause. Mycroft and John both holding their breath. Mycroft could see John holding himself taut with hope.

Sherlock didn't look like he had heard anything, staring into space, but eventually he turned his head away completely, and said in his special flat (hated by John) voice:

'I don't want to see him. I will stay at the Dower House, with John. No staff, just John and I. But I don't want to see the baby. I'm no father, Mycroft. I'm going to be in withdrawal for a week or more, and recovering after that. I don't want him associating with someone like me.'

Mycroft tried not to show his disappointment. The option of the baby being brought up at Holmes Manor by his grandparents was looking more likely by the minute. That wasn't what Mycroft wanted for the baby. Or for Sherlock. 

Softly, softly. The only option now.

'Thats fine, Sherlock. However you want to play it, of course. But please think about one thing. This baby really needs a name. We waited for you to come home, and now we have John home too, so that you could name your son, and we only have a couple of weeks left to do so. His name will need to be registered within 28 days of the birth, as a legal requirement.'

Sherlock showed no reaction. John nodded. But he was tired. His painkillers were starting to wear off and he needed to rest.

'Leave it with us, Mycroft. It's a lot to take in.'

Softly, softly.

'Very well. Thankyou John. I hope your recovery continues, and we look forward to welcoming you both at Holmes Manor as soon as you are fit and well.'

Mycroft gathered his umbrella, and left. But before he did so, he did something very out of character. He walked over to Sherlock and put his hand on his head, and stroked his hair. 

Then, thinking better of such unseemly displays, and concerned that Sherlock's earlier fury might return suddenly and violently, he squeezed Sherlock's shoulder quickly, then left hurriedly. Sherlock didn't seem to even register the contact, staring out into thin air.

..................

John looked over at Sherlock. He seemed to have forgotten all about the baby. He's blocking it out, John thought. He can't cope with it, at all. So he's just going to act like it either doesn't exist, or is some vague connection, some aunt coming to a tea party that he can attend, or not. His only child, downgraded to 'casual acquaintance'.

John was right. Sherlock was switched into completely non-baby mode now. He took off the oxygen mask and took more breaths in from an inhaler, designed to relieve the after effects of the pneumonia.

Then he started on John.

'Why didn't you half kill him, John? He left you for dead on the basis of a numbers game and political convenience, and you were raped. Why aren't you hating his guts?'

He seemed almost angry with John, like John being hurt was him being hurt, the same being, and Mycroft's sins all the greater and all the more personal for it. That John's forgiveness for things John had suffered, when Sherlock could not forgive those things himself, was a personal affront to Sherlock.

John was a branch that bent in the breeze braving Sherlock's storms and rages, but this man did not break, had not broken, would not break now. He had faced death several times, now. He knew just how sweet it was to survive, when you really didn't expect to make it. He was not afraid of Sherlock's anger. Nothing could intimidate him any more.

'Because I'm just glad to be alive. Because I'm glad you are alive. Because I did something fucking awful too, and I'm glad he doesn't know. Because it's going to take all of my energy, and all of yours, Sherlock, for us to get over this, and I don't have any to spare, not one minute, not one breath, to waste on being angry with Mycroft. 

And because he's left this note in my jacket pocket telling me that my rapist has now conveniently administered himself with a fatal dose of poison, and his remains are now helping to heat Anthea's office. That's why.'

John looked completely drained. Ready to drop. He looked at Sherlock. 

'Will they let you stay here? In the room with me? I'm going to need more painkillers and sleep soon? Probably sleeping tablets.'

Sherlock shook his head, miserably.

'I don't think so. The withdrawal symptoms are going to hit shortly. It's not going to be nice. I think you are better off with me away. I don't want you to visit me, either, John. I won't be able to talk or be company, and I'll just drag you down. The pneumonia has made everything harder this time. The houseboat was swimming in water, leaking. Even the bed was damp. I'm not too sure I'd have lasted much longer if Mycroft hadn't found me.'

'How did he?'

'My parents went mad and got a red setter puppy. One like Redbeard, called Sinbad, apparently. Mycroft's furious. It's chewed his best slippers and they're fobbing off the morning walks onto him. That's Mycroft, not Sinbad...... Anyway, Sinbad ran away and led Mycroft to me. Fitting, really, Redbeard was my real friend when I was very small, and now Sinbad the Successor saves me. I'll have to sponsor a kennel at the breed rescue, I reckon.'

Then Sherlock started coughing again, and this time the coughing didn't stop for a long time. John rang his buzzer to get someone to come, to help Sherlock back to his room. As he was helped away John was shocked by the desperate look in Sherlock's eyes. He knew what he was in for with the withdrawal, John thought, and he's afraid. 

It was going to be a long, lonely, miserable week for them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotation from the Paddington stories is the very first lines of the first Paddington Bear book, "A Bear Called Paddington", first published in 1958, by Michael Bond. I both read these books in bed as a wee girl, and also shared an obsession with marmalade sandwiches with Paddington....


	17. Holmes Manor: The Dower House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone not familiar with the UK and her aristocratic estates, a Dower House is a property on a country estate where the widowed lady of the manor would go to live once her husband died and the big house passed to the next generation (with her son and his wife and children taking it over).
> 
> Dower Houses would generally be of a good size, certainly large enough for a couple of maids to live there as well as the Dowager. For any normal family, it would be a decent family house.

"I write you poems in Day-Glo colours  
You hold them against the sunlight  
And tell me you cannot read them"

ADRIAN HENRI

....................

It was a full week before the two men, battle-scarred in such very different ways, were released from hospital in Bath; and those seven days felt like much, much longer. 

A week of liquid diet, before John's stitches were removed. As a doctor, he tried so very bloody hard to regard this as a routine medical procedure, but he failed miserably; the first touch of the doctor's gloved hand brought everything all back, in the worst possible way; and John had to ask for a break after that first stitch was removed. They tried to resume but this time he went into full panic mode. Once he had calmed, even he agreed to the tentative proposal for sedation for the rest. He wished he'd asked for it upfront.

A week, then, for John to now be deemed competent enough in the "undercarriage" department, to be awarded the "Successful Shitter" award.....The award only existed in John's head, of course, but he was really not feeling so good with the world just now, and the dark humour helped. A bit. Not much.

A week of Sherlock, who John yearned for, like a starving man longs for a tiny crust of bread, being so near and yet so far; John being kept firmly at bay. The glimpses John saw of the shivering, desperate suffering, on his occasional shuffling forays to stand silently at the door of Sherlock's room, looking through the inset wired glass panel, making him understand only too well why Sherlock hadn't wanted him near. 

Even as a captive, he had people around. Sherlock had no one, except periodic medical checks and occasionally being offered food which he never ate, and which was eventually taken away again, untouched. Even Mycroft didn't come, frantically busy with work having expended so much time in the past week on the baby. Sherlock's parents were also absent, but in their case, John imagined they, like he, were banished by Sherlock's orders. 

In the end, John noticed in later corridor visits, Sherlock had been put on a drip yet again, and he overheard the doctor saying his weight was dropping to a dangerous level and his vital organs showing signs of stress. He hoped the highs had been amazing, to make all this current suffering worthwhile. Then remembered that Sherlock had done it, only as the least distressing way to kill himself. Not for the high.

John forced himself, fist thumping hard against the corridor wall in mute distress, to leave the sights and sounds of the shivering, vomiting, scratching man, despite it hurting more than anything in the world not to be able to go and lie with him and comfort him. But Sherlock had been very clear. He'd been here before, this hell, and he knew there was no comfort to be had, not even from John. 

He didn't want John seeing him like this, and instead wanted to meet him again, out at the other side of his acute stage of withdrawal.

So John stayed out of sight of Sherlock's pained and hollow gaze, and that of Bee toy's beady judging eyes; and cried for him, instead of with him. 

That was, of course, when he wasn't crying for himself, either from the flashbacks of Albert's assault on him, or memories of Afghanistan. Sometimes the two merged, and that was the very worst type of nightmare of all. They still affected John after several days, and in the end he spent the later nights of that week in a new room, having to be moved from his original one as his nightmares and resulting screams were disturbing the other patients. The new room was in a remote gloomy corner of the unit, but even John knew he wasn't coping, and didn't make a fuss when he was told, because the volume of his cries was by now actually waking him up, finding himself sitting bolt upright, with his mouth still open in the act of screaming.

...............

Sherlock wasn't told about John's move, due to an oversight caused by him being mid projectile vomiting-spree when it happened. This was unfortunate, since it created an even bigger disturbance, when he finally felt up to seeing John, but couldn't find anyone to ask where John was, and as a result simply started barging his way into every private room on the floor he could find, searching for him. 

He was lucky not to be arrested, in the end, after he was physically extracted from the room of an 85 year old woman who was having a blanket bath and who he was interrogating about the whereabouts of a handsome silvery blond military medic.....

It was only knowledge of what the two men had been through that saved him; well, that and the juicy donation Mycroft was making to the staff amenity fund to bribe them to tolerate the anticipated Sherlockian rudeness and behaviour. Mycroft arranged flowers and chocolates for the old lady and her carers, and Anthea soothed ruffled feathers with a session of pillow plumping and eyelash-batting. Mycroft thought he would leave the eyelash batting to Anthea on this occasion. She was so much better at it.

.....................

Finally, what seemed interminable, and unbearable; was finally over.

Their discharge from the hospital, in Sherlock's case much looked forward to by the security staff and nurses alike, was coordinated; and so it was, on a cold, damp Tuesday morning, that a black limousine pulled up at the front of the hospital, and the two men climbed gingerly in. 

Sherlock was now over the worst of the active withdrawal symptoms, but looked ghastly for it, haunted, gaunt and skeletal, and huddled shivering into the Belstaff. John was thin, too, and significantly depressed, having not coped at all well with the enforced separation while trying to come to terms with his shattered arm and career as well as the bile that rose in his throat at least every half-hour when something seemingly insignificant made him remember the beatings and the rape. Struggling with his arm in the cast. He was quiet, very quiet. Too quiet. 

Both of them could probably have been diagnosed as suffering from clinical depression in one form or another, if the truth be told. 

Mycroft had never seen them like this, not together. He knew part of it, for Sherlock, was also the fear of the prospect of being even closer to the Manor than the houseboat had been. 

John knew that too, and despite his own dark trough of despair, took Sherlock's hand. 

'Are you OK? Can you do this, going there?'

Sherlock shrugged. Like it was nothing. 

Liar. 

John knew. You are lying to yourself and you are lying to me, but he did not comment, instead waiting until Sherlock chose to speak himself.

'I'm not going into the Manor house or its gardens. The Dower House has its own separate entrance into the wider grounds. And its own garden too, which has a tall hedge all round it. I will just have to pretend it's somewhere else.'

John looked down, pursing his lips.

'And what about. The rest of it. The baby?'

Sherlock looked away and instantly shut off from John. Like a security screen in a bank or a jewellers. Whoosh, and wow, there it was. How did he do that so quickly and completely, John wondered? 

At length Sherlock shook his head. And spoke at length, for the first time, about the baby.

'I haven't changed my mind, John. I'm not seeing the baby. I'm no use that way. 

I have you, and I have a life with you in London, and I will go back to that life once I'm a little stronger, and I hope that you will come with me. 

I don't owe my family that: the sacrifice of all that; this baby is their property, their project, their problem. They knew what they were doing. 

They didn't care enough about me to save you, and I'm not sacrificing my own happiness to complete their ludicrous picture of Happy Families. It's a lie, John, and I'm not prepared to be party to living that lie any more. They've got their prize, they can polish it and mould it alone. I wish them well with him.'

He sounded so angry, and so bitter, in a way John had rarely heard him. And Mycroft heard every word of it, and said nothing, John glanced across, and saw Mycroft just gripping the armrest of his seat ever harder, his fingers digging in so deeply John wondered if the marks would ever disappear. He had little sympathy. 

But while he hated what this was doing to Sherlock, John also knew that this -Sherlock's words - couldn't, in the end, be the answer. 

The child would grow. How could they explain to a small boy, that the man who occasionally dropped in for tea, who peered at him like some scientific specimen, perhaps bringing him something deeply child-inappropriate as a present; was their father, the father who didn't want them, and that there wasn't even really ever a mother at all? 

............

It was inhuman. 

The Holmes family were inhuman, John decided, putting them in a properly labelled corner for the first time. They were already there in Harry's mind, he knew.

John now properly understood, he felt, for the first time; what it must feel like to be the offspring of a family like the Holmes. Privileges came at a very high price, in their case, it seemed to him now. From the outside, to the casual observer, it must all look so easy, and sunlight-bathed. No money worries, no worries about careers or jobs, or childcare, or impressing others. That all just flowed like the wine in their extensive cellars at the Manor. 

Things that John's own family could only ever dream of. That John had dreamed of. 

But closer to, under the microscope.... John shivered. The smooth easy glittering beauty looked different, close up. The cell structure was ugly, chaotic, maybe even diseased? 

The rich are different, all right, he thought. But maybe, not always in ways we should be envious of......

And how could they, he and Sherlock, return to 221B, alone and with no baby, to a house with a nanny flat, a nursery and children's bedroom? Sherlock might just blankly "Mind Palace" his child, and fill the rooms up with dust and specimens and more stuffed marmosets, but John knew he himself would not be able to wallpaper over the cracks so easily. With John's own chance of having a child of his own while in a relationship with Sherlock, practically removed if Sherlock rejected his own child; would he, John, be able to cope with the reminders of what might have been? Could he even live like that? 

John didn't know. About any of it. He was just trying to stop himself crying out at night with the horrific nightmares about recent events. He simply had no more bandwidth for this depth of crappy stuff as well.

..................

But one thing he did know, and that was that time was short. Either Sherlock needed to change his mind, or the child would need to be brought up largely without his presence and influence, with Mummy and Daddy Holmes effectively acting as stand-in parents. 

Yet Mr Holmes was not in the best of health and both of them were older and tireder than they should be, for their age. John knew nothing of Sherrinford, of course, but the events with Sherlock by themselves led him to conclude that Sherlock's parents had both been prematurely aged by the strain of dealing with their younger son's lifetime of breakdowns and extreme behaviour.

John leaned against Sherlock in silent support of his struggle with his conflicts, but also his own deep sadness. He had hoped things might have changed, now the initial drug withdrawal period was over; that Sherlock might have softened his understandable but extreme rejection of the child he'd never even seen. 

So far, clearly not. 

..................

He decided to drop it, for now. 

He looked at the gaunt weary face next to his own and the welling up of fierce love and pain at not being able to keep him from hurting himself, reminded him of the fact that at least they were still alive.

For now, John had learned to appreciate that being here, together, was more than enough to aim for.

He cleared his throat.

'So. Do you know if there's any food in at the Dower House? Or will I need to shop? Not sure how, I don't have a car there, and can't drive at the moment anyway, and have no idea where the shops are.'

'Mmmm.' Sherlock was leaning into John now, his eyes drooping. He jerked himself awake.

'Bath. The driver will take you wherever you want, but Bath's the best and closest option. If you do go, there's a Breton chap runs a good bakery down the bottom of the city, near the station. Get some pains au chocolat and the ones with the almonds too, if you do go. You can even cycle it along the Kennet and Avon canal towpath from the Manor. There are bikes in the coach house. Might need to pump up the tyres though........Then Sherlock looked at John's useless arm, and literally hit himself on the forehead, for having been so utterly stupid and crass. 

He didn't try to apologise or cover for it, you couldn't, he was so tired, he just took John's hand and stroked it in a tactile appeal for forgiveness. John squeezed his hand in comfort at his distress. His arm wasn't Sherlock's fault. And Sherlock looked all-in.

Of course there would be a coach house, though, John thought, So far that made a Manor House, the Dower House, the coach house and the houseboat. And two lakes. And a stretch of riverbank. He was just waiting for the Tudor knot garden, the Hampton Court style formal maze and an Olympic-sized swimming pool to reveal themselves now......

Sherlock, when he shared this thought, smiled wearily and said he was being ridiculous: swimming pools were utterly vulgar.......but there was a hard tennis court?

Tennis court. Of course. There's always something.....

..............

It didn't take long to get from the hospital in Bath to Holmes Manor, less than half an hour at that time of day. The countryside was stunning, verdant and lush, and John was now consciously deciding to try his best to be positive, not to give up on the baby prospects, and to see this time as a chance to rest and recover.

Just as the hum of the road surface was pulling John into a doze, tucked against Sherlock's bony side, he was woken once again as the limousine pulled off the side road into a crunching golden gravel drive. There were tall dark yew trees on either side, with a white painted post and iron chain low fence with diamond studs fronting the hedge. An old cast-iron tall lamppost stood sentry duty. 

The Dower house must be Victorian, John realised, as the car stopped and they got out. Gothic was all the rage, and the house was a riot of steep gables with pierced wooden barge boards, and stone-carved heraldic beasts on the corners of the stonework. A white painted, iron studded front door, in the shape of a pointed arch, gave access to a red quarry-tiled hallway. Sherlock was relieved it wasn't black and red like the Manor. That had very bad memories. 

Everywhere was white gloss woodwork, tiled or wooden floors, and more fireplaces than you could ever wish for. It was a wonder there were so many trees left in the valley, given all this wood-burning potential. 

'This is amazing'. John was gazing, rapt.

'Really? You think so? Why is it?' Sherlock looked a little puzzled.

'It's the kind of house I pictured when I was little. Harry wanted to live in a condo in Miami, with a speedboat, like on 'Miami Vice', but I always drew pictures of a house like this. It's like a fairy tale house. Gingerbread-y.'

Sherlock looked at him searchingly. Then waved his hand.

'I'm not even sure Gingerbread-y is actually a word, John? The house is fairly standard neo-Gothic architecture. There are much better examples. For example in North Oxford you can find superior....'

He was silenced by a small kiss to his cheek. Hmmm. Nice. Mmm. Not enough of that, recently, they both thought simultaneously. Nothing sexual, nothing triggering, just warm and damp and affectionate. John obviously thought so too, because he did it again a moment later, leaving a small thin John-lips shaped dampness against Sherlock's grateful cheek.

Sherlock turned to John, as they walked on, into the kitchen. 

'John. How are you feeling?'

'Good. Better, relatively. This is a good distraction. 

The arm? Well, you know, it is how it is. Don't know if I can keep up any pretence of being able to work as a doctor any more?' That was hard to even say, John realised as the words came out. He swallowed back the thick lump that suddenly appeared in his throat.

'You need two fully working arms more often than you'd think. So that's not good, more than a bit. But I'm alive, Sherlock. And that's what this arm has earned me. So I'm not going to let myself hate it.'

Sherlock looked at him now from under his dark curling lashes.

'And - the other? John? How are you.....recovering?'

'Yeah. That's. Hmm. The stitches are out but, yeah. Well, not so easy. You know. But let's not talk about that now. Please. I'm not ready.'

'Of course, John.'

They walked on, heads down. The space between them spoke volumes. To outsiders, they could have been strangers, casual acquaintances. This, the couple who everyone had assumed were lovers years and years and years before anything ever happened between them......

....................

Within an hour, the bags were unpacked: (John, slowly, with one hand, Sherlock doing the zips on the bags for him), but the resulting neat and tidy appearance of the Dower House then proceeded to be almost immediately wrecked by Sherlock suddenly looking furious and manic, and appearing to select random items of bric-a-brac from each room, piling them up, and shoving them violently into cardboard boxes and tea-crates he found in the attic.

Then John heard him ringing Mycroft, who was back at Holmes Manor for the day, and heard him shout at Mycroft down the phone. He sounded almost hysterical, his deep voice rising.

John couldn't hear the whole conversation, but what he did discern at his end was that the Dower House had been left empty and unfurnished, so someone (identity yet to be pinned down, but whoever it was, John felt sorry for them already), had taken it upon themselves to make the place more "homely", by bringing over a selection of items from the Manor to furnish the rooms. 

There was a spitting whirlwind spinning through the property now.....

'You and Mycroft will have to move that table. He should be here in a minute', Sherlock barked as he swept through the sitting room, wild-eyed. 

'I cant do that Sherlock, I've only got one fucking arm in effect, you know, why....'

'I don't care. Just do it, John. Get it out of my sight. And the chairs. I'm going outside. Tell me when it's gone.'

The French doors to the garden opened, and slammed closed again, and Sherlock vanished from sight. 

..........

Great start, this, John thought. He looked out of the window. He could see Sherlock there, out on the terrace. He'd clearly acquired some cigarettes from somewhere, even though he 'didn't smoke' and had been in hospital for a week; and he was lighting one now, or trying to, but his hand was shaking so badly it took him three or four attempts. It wasn't the wind, there was no wind today.....

John looked at the table. Looked at Sherlock. Looked at the table again. That hadn't been very kind of Sherlock, had it, at all, when John only had one arm that worked, the other in plaster (and even when it wasn't in plaster, likely not going to be that much cop)? 

John was majorly pissed with him. Fortunately he retained enough control to wonder. What was extreme enough to make Sherlock so cruel and uncaring, so suddenly?

John stared blankly at the table, in exactly the same way as he had once stared at an armchair that reappeared in 221B, and at a bottle of Clair de la Lune perfume........it never tastes like it smells, does it.....

Realisation dawned like a body blow to his guts. As it did then, so it did now. 

Fucking fucking FUCKING hell. 

Sherlock. Poor Sherlock. Poor William. No wonder you didn't want to risk coming here, for so long. 

He instantly took his hand off the table, like it was red-hot. He no longer wanted to touch the thing, either. He felt dirty and contaminated just with that brief contact.

..............

Mycroft came, tight-lipped and pale-faced when he turned up. He brought gloves, ostensibly to stop them hurting their hands, but they had the dual benefit of meaning John didn't have to touch the objects directly. 

Mycroft had some castors and a ratchet lift device, and so even with John's one working arm, they eventually successfully loaded the table and chairs up into the trailer behind the Land Rover Mycroft was driving. That was a sight John had never thought he'd see, although Mycroft could have enlightened him as to his many and varied skills that he possessed, but didn't normally use, being under the category of the much maligned and delegated "Legwork".

'How is he, John?'. Mycroft looked tired, and slightly sad.

'He was better before he saw all this - stuff - from the big house.'

'Yes. Unfortunate, John. That was an error. Not the staffs' fault really, none of those that work here now were here, when, well. You know. 

And Sherlock hasn't ever shared with us, his family, details, descriptions. Locations, that sort of thing, he's never said. When he eventually came home afterwards, back from the clinics and the like, he rarely left his room except to leave for school at the start of term and come back at the end.'

'That can't be true? He was at Eton for seven years, Mycroft.'

'It was indeed seven years, John, and I'm afraid it's perfectly true. He did leave his room, but only at night, and he generally used a rope-ladder out of the window to access the grounds. He didn't want to be in the rest of the house, that was the key thing. His room itself, that was his cave, where he felt safe. But even that was not a place you would have wished to see.'

John shook his head. One room for seven years-worth of holidays. Eight weeks in the summer, as John knew public schools had longer summer vacs than state schools like his own. John had only had six weeks, which never seemed long enough......Sherlock must have wished he did, too. Eight weeks, alone in one room, trapped like a bluebottle in a jar. Plus the Christmas and Easter vacs. Maybe half-terms weeks too?

Mycroft was still speaking. John swallowed the lump in his throat.

How is he otherwise, John?'

Mycroft did definitely look tired, John thought, it wasn't his imagination.

'He still says he won't see the baby, Mycroft. I don't know what to say to him to change his mind? He seems to think he's a toxic influence, that should stay away from children, even his own child. And that he and I can't have anything like our old life with a baby in tow.'

'Well, John. He may have a point in that last statement. But he doesn't appreciate that life may be actually better, then? He's fixated on the idea, perhaps, that he's found this life with you that he likes, in a way he never has enjoyed life before, and he's terrified to lose it.'

John nodded. 

'He's too scared to do anything but preserve the 221B bachelor-pad in aspic. He thinks any change will ruin it. But there's more, Mycroft. I've heard him when he thinks I'm asleep. Reading, out loud, snippets from internet articles and academic publications about the incidence of child abuse amongst offenders who were themselves abused, versus offenders who were not. 

I think that he thinks he is a risk to the child, just by virtue of the fact that he was abused himself. It's ridiculous but he can't see that. 

And besides that, he doesn't think he wants a life with a child in it. At all. Ever. That your family's failure to get me out earlier than you did, means he no longer owes any of you anything, and that the obligation he previously felt was purely that, and no longer applies after - well, after what happened to me.'

Mycroft sighed. 

'I am sorry, you know, John. And I'm grateful that you yourself have found yourself able to reconcile yourself in some way, to some degree, with my actions. Try and get him to see sense, John? I don't know how, but please do try. And bear in mind there's only a week left to choose a name.'

He looked sad suddenly. Really properly sad. He shook his head.

'He's missing so much, John. You both are. He's really a splendid little chap. 

Or, if Sherlock won't meet him yet, try to get him to agree for you to?'

John knew once he did that, he would be sunk, and then the baby could cause enormous conflict between himself and Sherlock. But he nodded, because he knew he couldn't stay away from the baby given the slightest permission to visit, and promised Mycroft he would try. 

He threw the rough grey blankets over the hateful table and chairs, loaded the rest of the triggering bric-a-brac, and walked slowly back through the front door. 

.............

 

Dinner that night was an odd affair. It was delivered by a young man on a ride-on lawnmower, slowly trundling down the path connecting the Manor and the Dower House. 

Sherlock unloaded the foil-wrapped containers and took them inside, as it was a two-handed job, while John, who would normally handle all these practicalities, thanked the man, (who nodded and buzzed away on the mower), and was reduced to slowly laying the table, one piece of cutlery at a time.

Dinner was not a success, in the end, like so many meals which are long awaited by the participants. Perhaps expectations were too high, or perhaps their mutual depression was too smothering to allow them to enjoy each other's company. 

The meal was some kind of casserole, which was delicious but kind of slippery, and really not ideal for the man at the table with only a single functional arm. Sherlock saw John struggling with his knife and fork, getting crosser and crosser with his limitation, swearing under his breath, and offered to "get him a spoon". John, frustrated and tired and depressed, shouted at Sherlock that he "didn't want a fucking spoon", that he "wasn't a fucking child", and that "he wanted his fucking arm back". 

Sherlock looked at him, and bit his lip; but getting no response, he also sulked, and said that he "was going outside to smoke". 

John said he "didn't want to taste sour tobacco", and Sherlock "was meant to have given it up".

Sherlock went outside and smoked. 

.................

It was almost dark by the time Sherlock eventually came back in from the terrace. He did smell of tobacco, but John noticed he was also disposing of some mint gum into the kitchen bin. It seemed symbolic of something, at least, of a willingness, not to break to the will of others, but to make small concessions for John. 

But only for him. Nothing of that for his family, none for outsiders. None at all for a tiny baby sleeping just a few hundred yards away. 

They sat quietly late into the evening. The fire had been laid ready, in the fireplace, with its highly glazed surround of red and green tiles decorated with ivy motifs; and since it is well known to be impossible to NOT light a fire when it has been laid ready for you, they gave in and lit it, and sat together on the sofa with all the lights out, watching the flames curling and flickering, casting orange light and dark shadows across the room and across each other's faces. Not touching closely as they normally would. 

Sherlock was too afraid to make physical contact that could trigger John, and John was scared of it too.

If they were honest, they were also both exhausted, worn out by physical suffering and mental trauma. The light cast by the fire was soft, and concealed much, but couldn't mask the grim look on both their faces and the worry and weariness marked in the lines on their faces. John truly felt his age tonight, the years slipping quickly away now, and it felt sombre and gloomy.

About midnight, when it couldn't be put off any longer, they climbed the stairs up into the main bedroom with its sloping ceilings and large brass bed. It was colder up here, but there had been an electric blanket on a timer, which they hadn't noticed before; so when they dipped their toes into the bed, expecting that cold, almost damp chill, they found instead dry and toasty warmth. 

It was the sort of small, pleasant surprise that means so much to those sinking down towards a state of despair. 

So there they lay. 

They had hardly kissed or touched, since leaving the hospital earlier in the day. There had always been too many people. 

And now the people had gone, and so had the excuses for silence; and now there were the unspoken questions. Those for John, about his mental readiness and physical condition for acts of intimacy. Those for Sherlock, about the implications of his drug use, especially as the drugs had been at least partially contaminated, on their sexual practices. 

And those for each other, about what they did about the things that had happened to them, and the elephant in the room they just weren't talking about. 

The child.

For tonight, neither wanted to address difficult questions. They had been separated, both almost died, and both thought the other to be dead. 

So they didn't talk. Instead they held each other tightly, dressed in bizarrely demure pyjamas, Sherlock spooned around John. John flinched when Sherlock first pressed himself along his back, but gritted his teeth, telling himself not to scream, or cry; that it was safe, that it was Sherlock, and that this, this, was why he had willed himself to survive his captivity, this was his reason for getting out, to have this, to feel this: and slowly, slowly, he relaxed slightly when Sherlock held him tighter still, the grip triggered as he felt the trembling body of John shrinking away. 

And, at last, they slept. 

Well, John did.

.................

Sherlock slept little.

Sherlock didnt know how to deal with the fallout for John. 

He knew that he didn't know, but beyond that, had not the first idea of how to address it.

He didn't understand his own emotions, he never had, beyond the sure and certain knowledge that he loved John Watson, truly loved him beyond all reason and compare, and since he didn't believe in God, then the only hope for his own redemption in this life, was through John's love. 

He didn't, couldn't, go further than that; to actually understand John's feelings, his emotions, his pain; especially as he suspected that John's very normality actually made his feelings more complicated than Sherlock's own. Anything that interfered with his love for John, Sherlock merely deleted or ignored, like John's assault on him. John couldn't do that, and had to navigate his love for Sherlock through social norms, the requirements of others, his own sense of identity, his past experiences. It was harder for John, much harder, Sherlock thought. Lots of things were. 

As he woke in the early hours, briefly, John tensed again, and Sherlock stroked him gently and softly and outside any triggering erogenous zones. Gradually, slowly, John relaxed back into the contact, and Sherlock held his breath, hardly daring to move a muscle for fear of startling John; John only frowning when Sherlock's pyjama sleeve was pushed up as he wound it around John, and on looking down at it, John saw the horrific array of healing track marks on his pale skin. He pulled Sherlock's sleeve down again, muttering, 'Keep you warm, it's only warm under the covers', and said no more about it. Sherlock pulled him closer still in gratitude.

They slept again, both of them now, for the remaining hours of the night, the peaceful dreamless sleep of those who thought they might not have this time again. 

When John woke, he was still gripped tightly by a sleeping Sherlock, whose eyes were tightly shut, but John saw there were dried tear tracks down his face.

....................

 

The next day brought sunshine, fabulous croissants and new challenges. 

Sherlock expressed a desire to stay at the Dower House, as he was still experiencing some of the less pleasant side-effects of drug withdrawal. He was morose and depressed. 

John felt a little better for a good night's sleep that was not in a hospital bed, and was with Sherlock next to him. 

He would very much have liked Sherlock's company, but when Mummy Holmes rang to remind him that both the car and driver were at their disposal, John decided to go into Bath and do some shopping. Their evening meals were being made for them, since Sherlock would rather not eat, than ever bother to cook and John was indisposed for an indeterminate period with his smashed-up arm, but lunches and breakfasts he could definitely make more tempting than the wholesome but dull offerings in the Dower House kitchen cupboards. And he needed something to do, to distract him from his thoughts.

So he left Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, with a damp flannel, an empty washing up bowl in case of vomiting, and a kiss to the forehead, and got into the limousine alone. 

If he was honest with himself, using his head and not his heart, John knew he also probably needed some time alone, away from people. Even Sherlock. 

Sherlock was doing his best, casting quick concerned glances at John and being unusually helpful, and - well, that was it really, wasn't it? That was what was driving John mad, because it just wasn't "Sherlock", and him being so out of character just reminded John of what Sherlock was tiptoeing around. 

They hadn't talked about the rape. John knew they needed to. Sherlock had tried, this morning, to raise it. But in his sometimes clumsy way with emotionally difficult subjects, he really didn't do a great job. 'John, I think we should talk about your rape' isn't perhaps the most sensitive way to raise the subject only a week after the event, especially when the rape victim in question is trying to brush his teeth at the time. 

Sherlock had toothpaste half spat in his face as John told him to fuck off, and the bathroom door was shut firmly in his face for that effort.

John wondered if Sherlock was being especially rubbish at this because of the drug withdrawal side-effects? Possibly, he concluded, but he thought it was more that Sherlock was trying too hard: not wanting John to think he was disgusted by him, (in the context of them not having had sex since), or trying to sweep it under the carpet, as, in some respects, his own abuse had been, so many years before. 

Whatever the motive, John wanted to get away from anyone who knew anything at all about what had happened to him, so he could just be, or pretend to be, a normal person, shopping and passing the time of day with the good folk of Bath, who didn't know that not much more than a week ago, he'd turned from being a soldier medic working for M16, to being a man with a crippled arm who unsuccessfully begged to give a man a blow job to stop him raping him. 

Anonymous, yeah, well, in so far as a man with a limp (yep, his old friend was back) and one arm in plaster, who jumped ten feet if someone so much as brushed past him, could ever really be anonymous again?

Anonymous seemed like the height of luxury just now.

.......................

John spent about three hours in Bath. The city is very small, and the slope of its streets, though noticeable, is manageably gradual, even for a limpy type of fellow; rising up from the railway station down in the lush Avon river valley, up past the Pump Room and the Roman Baths, the Cathedral; up still further towards the symmetrical glories of the Royal Crescent and Circus near the top of the central area.

John was entranced by the place. It reminded him of Edinburgh, the only other city he'd been to which had lived up to the hype of the soft focus heritage flannel. He loved London too, but this place was warmer, smaller, more human, somehow? He could get its measure on early acquaintance, and he needed that at the moment, to keep his emotions grounded. With his limp, it was his ideal habitat, apart from some picturesque but unforgiving cobbles. 

He looked out across the river, to Pulteney Bridge and the weir, and the families picnicking in the gardens next it it, and felt a little of the weariness and despair leave his mind. There was a small breeze, ruffling his sandy-silver hair, and the sun was shining. Only his arm in a cast and his litany of scars and his unforgiving flashbacks, reminded him that "John Watson" was a work in progress at best.

He found the bakery. He couldn't find the road it was on, and wouldn't be able to lead anyone back there again, but he smelt it before he saw it, and his mouth watered. He hadn't really felt very hungry the day before, and before that he'd only been allowed liquids. He averted his thoughts from the reasons for that, and concluded that something delicious from here would be tempting for Sherlock to get him to eat, and to get himself back into the eating mode.

In the end, he bought some sourdough bread, some Bath Buns, and an array of almond, chocolate and apricot croissants, plus a tarte aux cerises. They'd never eat it all but he didn't care. Freedom meant the freedom to buy far too much food, today. 

He spat out the revolting if health-giving mineral-heavy sample of hot spring water in the Pump Rooms, dodged a juggling unicyclist street entertainer, and bought a copy of the Big Issue from an infectiously smiley dreadlocked chap outside the bank on snooty Milsom Street. 

He felt better for the experience, and was cheerful and chatty on the way back to the Manor, the driver indulging him by sounding interested in the way well-trained professionals can, even if they are stunningly bored by their clients. John eventually fell quiet, and sat back in the car, exhausted by the exercise, and exhaled. Perhaps all would be well, in the end? 

.....................

His optimism got the better of him in the shape of his own curiosity. As they approached the turning for the Manor, (which they reached before the smaller track that led to the Dower House), John asked the driver to turn off to the big house. He didn't know why, he just wanted to see the place William Holmes had grown up, even if that was a place completely blighted by events.

The car turned down the gravel drive, the tall yew hedge and Lebanese Cedar trees flanking the way. Soon the house appeared into view, and John asked the driver to park up now. He'd heard faint voices, and he didn't want to be seen, just to see the house.

The house he saw come into view was beautiful, golden and long and low, with a Cotswold stone roof barely less golden than its walls, and wisteria dripping from every window and doorway, the lilac racemes trailing down like magical fairy flowers. The sun was setting, and the smell of the flowers was intoxicating.

The voices grew slightly louder. Laughing, now. The driver had taken the car away with the food to the Dower House now, and John was alone. He peeked around the edge of a hedge. 

Away across the lawn, sitting on a Holmes tartan picnic blanket, was Mrs Holmes, along with a lounging waistcoat-clad Mycroft, his suit jacket abandoned on the baby buggy; and on the blanket, next to a soft cuddly bee toy, was Sherlock's tiny son. 

John's breath caught in his throat and emotion welled up, as he gazed at the baby. It rushed over him, in him. He wanted to reach out and touch him, to hold him, to take him home. To show Sherlock the power of a baby to heal him. The feeling was deep, and primeval, and it felt like it was searing through his guts. 

He watched on.

He'd never seen Mycroft like this with anyone. He was crawling around on the rug making faces at the baby. His tie was nowhere to be seen, and his sleeves were rolled up as he covered his eyes and then peeped out, saying 'Boo'. John was open-mouthed, watching for a long time, what looked for all the world like a loving father playing with their child. 

He realised now, maybe for the first time, what this baby was meaning for Mycroft. And that it wasn't really to Sherlock's parents and this house that Sherlock would lose the baby if he didn't change his mind, but to his brother. Who had, John noted, been here, during the week, the working week, all the time since they arrived. For anyone else, that would perhaps be unexceptional. For Mycroft, it was unprecedented.

John got some dust, or maybe a dandelion fluff in his throat, and though he tried to suppress it, he started to cough. Mycroft, his senses alert for any intruder, immediately looked up and sprang to his feet. John took that as his cue to leave. He thought that he'd managed to remain unseen, but Mycroft was no fool, and caught sight of the giveaway flash of a white plaster cast disappearing round the back corner of the house....

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully to himself, the mystery solved, and returned to his mother and his nephew. He couldn't remember being this happy. Adjusting the parasol shade to keep the baby out of the sun, he began to read out nursery rhymes from a book. With voices for the different animals. The British Government was doing an impression of a duck.

........................

When John got back to the Dower House, he found Sherlock deep in some academic Chemistry paper, and uncommunicative; and though he brightened at the sight of John's purchases, John thought he looked pale and upset.

That evening, after dinner of rose veal escalopes (easier to eat as long as fingers were overlooked) and pommes dauphinois (not quite so easy, but this time John had equipped himself with his own spoon), and some of the tarte; John sat back and raised the question that really couldn't be left any longer.

'You know you need to come up with a name? Tonight or tomorrow, really.'

Sherlock frowned. He'd eaten little of the feast and would have benefitted from more, but was having to cut the food up himself now and that never went well.

He looked aggrieved at John's words, and tapped his fingers angrily on the table.

'I don't see why I need to? I've told them the baby is their problem. I don't owe them this much. I don't owe them anything. They forced me into it and then they left you to die and worse, and I've had it with their manipulation and mindfucks.'

Sherlock got up, and stalked towards the stairs. Clearly a sulk in the bedroom was on the cards. Great, just great, thought John. There goes our evening together.

John really didn't want to have a row, a serious one, with Sherlock as neither of them were up to it, and Sherlock especially was depressed. John was more exhausted and traumatised. 

But there was no choice now. Time had run out. 

You know, Sherlock, you're wrong. You do owe them it?'

Sherlock whipped round on the stairs, his bony body all angles and points. He folded his arms. He never folded his arms. At least, John couldn't remember when he had, anyway. His eyes flashed.

'Do go on. I'm listening. I hope this is good. And I also trust, John, that you can control yourself, if I say or do something you don't like in reaction.'

Below the belt. Very below. 

John bit his lip, and looked up at Sherlock angrily. But he was prepared for this. It had to be thrown back in his face at some point. And here it was, deployed when Sherlock felt most cornered. So, he breathed carefully, and counted, and then he simply nodded slowly. 

'I'm sure I will do my very best, Sherlock. I hope you know that I am very aware of the need for me to do something about my anger issues, and I am doing just that. Let's leave me out of it, and just concentrate on the issues here, shall we? 

It's nothing that you don't know, you just choose to ignore it. Yes, Mycroft blackmailed you into having the child. But what did he blackmail you with? Something big enough that made it worthwhile for you to say 'yes', Sherlock. And you did. You did say yes. 

You said yes to keep me out of prison. And that was big enough, because we both know, don't we, how that would have played? 

My guess on that one? You back on the drugs within a month, dead within three; and me either jumped daily in the showers, for daring to be a high-profile man in a same-sex relationship, or topping myself in my cell. Or, probably, both. 

So please, please, Sherlock, don't be so selective with your memory?: this wasn't your ideal choice, but it was your better of the two available choices, and you are not being fair to your own child. 

Blame Mycroft and your mother if you must, it was their project and they were pretty much prepared to do anything to get compliance, and it was completely unethical, but please, please, don't take your anger out on the child as a matter of principle. There are no points to be scored here. And no principles. Just a baby who needs his Dad. Not his uncle or his grandparents or his nanny. His father, Sherlock. You.

I will NOT see you abandon him. I will not see his first words being addressed to Mycroft, him calling him Daddy. I want you to name this fucking child, and I want us to take him with us home to Baker Street and for him to know his father. 

And God help me, Sherlock, but if you leave him here when you go back, I may not be able to follow you there, at least not until I've had some time away, because I saw them together today, Sherlock; I saw Mycroft with the poor little bastard you can't even be bothered to give an identity, a name to; and that man is enraptured, completely entranced by the child, and you are about to lose him for good. 

And I don't know, now, knowing the issues I have, I don't know what I might do, if that happens and so it would be safer for me to remove myself for a while. I don't know how long for?'

With that, John walked out of the house, slamming the door, tears blinding his way, and stumbled down the terrace steps into the garden. There was a bench at the end of the grass, with a view through a gap in the hedge, down towards the darkling river. He slumped down onto it, and his choking sobs echoed around the rustling trees as the night came on.

...................

When John came quietly back into the house, so much later that night, there was just one small side lamp glowing in the sitting room. 

Sherlock was there, lying on the sofa, along its length, hands steepled and his blackest mood clearly absent, but somehow his face still looked like thunder. 

John looked at him, for a long time. And then finally he shook his head and made his way shuffling upstairs, to wash the dirty tear stains from his eyes and go alone to their miserable bed. 

He realised he hadn't cried very much since his release from his captors. Maybe he'd needed that more than he thought? 

There was no sound of feet on the staircase that night and John spent it alone and morose, waking every hour or so, missing the presence of the man who should be by his side. Normally he would be the one trying to make everything right, put the pieces back together. Make the peace. Not this time. It was Sherlock who had to make the decision and make the move. He cried again at the thought, because he didn't know if the man could do it.

John had meant what he'd said, though. If Sherlock stuck to his cruel plan, then John was going to need to take some time away, because the sense of loss and grief was something he knew could potentially turn to anger within him. After what had happened at Baker Street, he knew he needed strategies to recognise his own Danger Nights (or days, or triggers), and he was training himself to recognise them. The baby was a massive red flag right now.

He got up once, to go to refill his water glass from the drinking water tap in the family bathroom. The ensuite ones were fine for washing, but not filtered. On his way back across the landing, he thought he might have heard small choking sobs, coming from behind the closed door of the sitting room downstairs. His hand hesitated on the top bannister. He hadn't misheard. Someone was definitely crying. 

Then he set his face, walked back into the bedroom, and closed the door. 

He couldn't offer anything more. Sherlock was alone on this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bath details are accurate and the bakery exists; they do a very fab monthly subscription for those of us who like to use fresh yeast in our baking!  
> http://www.bertinet.com/bertinetbakery/
> 
> Bath buns are indeed a Thing  
> http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bath_bun
> 
> They may be related to the famous "Sally Lunn bun",which is also a Bath invention:-)


	18. Baby Holmes

The next morning, John came down to find Sherlock feigning sleep on the sofa. The washing up bowl and flannel there too. His long body horribly thin. He wasn't asleep, and John wasn't fooled.

John played along with the game, and went and made himself porridge, and strong coffee for both of them. He asked if Sherlock wanted anything to eat, but a bony disembodied hand just wafted up and and gestured at an empty bowl on the floor next to the sofa. It was hard to tell what, and how much of it, had been in there. 

Something with milk, but the tide mark only came up a few centimetres? Minimal displacement then. John looked at the cereal packets. Not enough milk for cornflakes. Not enough displacement for Weetabix. He saw the packet of Shreddies at the end. Small square things, less than an inch across. Deduction complete. A few of those, then. Not enough. Never enough. God. 

...............

He went and sat down, and was just about to start on his porridge, when he saw an envelope propped up against the empty solid silver engraved toast rack. Addressed to him. 

He looked at Sherlock. Eyes closed, hands folded across his body. 

John picked up the envelope, and slowly opened it, which he managed only because the envelope flap wasn't stuck down. Hoped it wasn't another of the Mycroft horrors he'd had in the past, which, to date, had included pictures of drug dealers crushed penises, and the mortuary photos of Sherlocks childhood abuser?Not really ideal for perusing over the Golden Grahams.

.........

It was not any of those things. This time, it was something moving, and momentous.

There was a postcard inside the envelope, a plain white one, and on it was written in bold capitals, just three words. 

"Parthalan Mycroft Holmes"

John leant on his plaster cast and wiped his brow with his other hand. 

He knew what he thought this was, but he was going to have to make absolutely sure. He took the card, walked over to the sofa, and knelt down beside it. 

'This is the name, Sherlock? For the baby? Because, you know, if it's a paint colour, we're both going to look pretty stupid?'

The nod he got was tiny, almost imperceptible, but it was there. 

John closed his eyes, and nodded, and as he rose he placed his hand on the crown of Sherlock's head, and just left it there for a moment. He could feel the minute trembling of the whole body beneath his touch. He gently took his hand away. 

As he reached the door he looked back and said:

'Y'know, it's a funny kind of name, and I know funny names, well, that's clearly a Holmes family thing. But does it...well. Mean anything?

Sherlock now stirred, and turned his inscrutable gaze onto John. 

'It's Gaelic, John. It's the Gaelic for Bartholomew. 

Barts. Where we met. Where you lent me your phone, and I asked you to share a flat. Where it all started.'

Sherlock looked down, fiddling with the drawstring of his pyjamas.

John looked at him for a long moment, his eyes shining suddenly, and then straightened, and nodded in a soldierly way, and went to leave, finally turning back and looking again at the long thin sad figure on the sofa. 

'Thank you, Sherlock.' He said it softly. Then walked out and quietly closed the door.

................

As he walked up the gravel path towards the Manor, his prize in his hand, John knew that he shouldn't get his hopes up. A willingness to name the child, or to avoid Mycroft naming him, was a very long way from any sort of agreement to parent the baby, and Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything of the sort. 

But it was now clear to Sherlock, John knew, that he couldn't have things all his own way as he had thought, at least in the short term. 

Maybe this was John blackmailing him now too, even if by necessity for their safety, by saying if Sherlock left without the baby he would also leave without John at his side? Blackmail to get his own way wasn't the reason for John's ultimatum; in the end he knew would come crawling back, to Sherlock's mind and his body and his own need; but he knew he could only safely do that once he had his emotions under control. 

And Sherlock would also know, that John having the card with the names, meant John was going to the Manor, probably to see this baby today, with all the risk of further and deeper investment that implied. Or did he? John wondered. Did he just hope this gesture would discharge his basic responsibility, and then allow him to still walk away?

For now, at least they had this. It was the only progress they had, to date. He clutched the card tightly in his good hand.

.................

He debated whether to go round to the front door, and ring the clanging doorbell, but Kirsty the nanny saw him first, and opened up the kitchen door for him. She was drying something plastic and baby related with a tea towel.

'Come on in, she said, smiling broadly. Her faced only dropped slightly when she realised he was alone, and there was no Sherlock following.

'His Majesty is just down for a wee nap.' She pointed to the baby monitor on the kitchen table. 'I'm taking the chance of catching up with some chores. But I'll be waking him shortly.'

'That would be......well.....wonderful. Thankyou, Kirsty, and I'm sorry that...'

'Dinnae fret', the woman said, forestalling him. 'I babysat Sherlock, well, William, when he was small. He's always been awfie complicated. Always some drama. But you would know that!'

John nodded. Then had to ask.

'Did you know him when....well, when he stopped being William?'

....................

She gestured for him to sit. Then smoothed out her apron and sighed. Looked John in the eye.

'Yes, although I wasn't meant to be working for the family then. 

I was asked to come back after it happened, part time, sometimes; to come and sit with him, once they'd got him out of the clinics and rescued him from his....attempts. They thought it would be soothing for him, for me to talk to him, like when he was a wee boy. 

But it didn't really work as we'd hoped, as I had to do it through the bedroom door. He never let anyone in. I only saw the inside of his room a couple of times, when he was dragged off to some shrink or medical appointment and I could take the opportunity. It was awful, John. He'd stripped everything from the inside of it. All the possessions, all the curtains, the bedclothes, everything. It was like a prison cell. Maybe he feared he'd use something in there to harm himself, I don't know? 

Even the wallpaper, he'd picked that off using his fingers, tiny bits at a time. That took him months but I guess it gave him something to focus on. Some of the psychiatric people thought it was a symptom of his disturbance, but I just thought it was therapeutic for him. Controllable, repetitive activity in a safe environment.'

John intervened. He didn't understand.

'How was it safe though, that room, for him, in his mind? I mean, the abuse? Did it not happen in his bedroom? Sorry. You might not know or want to discuss it but it seems odd? I think he's discussed those details with his psychiatrist but not with anyone else. Not with me.'

Kirsty nodded.

'I'm so glad he's seeing someone at last, to offload all of this stuff. He would never agree back then, and his reactions were so extreme and violent when anyone suggested it, it was too dangerous to press it. 

But no. The abuse happened lots of places, I understand, but not up there. It would have been easier, probably, if it had been concentrated in one room. Then we could have moved him out, and done things to the room, drastic things; knocked down walls, maybe just used it for storage; and that would perhaps have been more manageable. But it wasn't. 

The place was so often empty with just Sherlock and maybe a gardener or security man outside somewhere, it was all too easy for his tutor to abuse him in the rooms downstairs, all the ones you use daily. The study, hallway, dining room, living room, kitchen....'

'Which is why he can't come within a hundred metres of the place.'

'Exactly.'

...............

Kirsty carried on.

'He tried to cope with it until he went off to boarding school, the only ways he knew how, but it was a disaster him being here. Especially as his abuser was still walking around free at that point. How could he be sure he wouldn't come back?

He always had a small light on, all through the night, so it was never totally dark, and you would hear him, there's a sink and he would be there, washing his hands endless times a night to cleanse them, and the rest of him too, his body divided in segments. He had ten flannels, all different colours for different body parts. He made us throw certain ones away after they'd been used for a week, no longer, even if they were laundered daily. Others might be allowed two weeks, but none any longer. I bet he still does that, or something like it?'

John didn't know. He'd showered with Sherlock, and bathed with him, on an ad hoc basis, but now he thought about it, he'd never share the morning or evening routine washing, teeth, all that stuff. Sherlock kept that to himself. And Sherlock did stay in there quietly for quite a while, usually. John had just assumed that Sherlock and his cock might be having some private time, as guys do......Flannels, yeah. Now he thought about it, there were quite a few. They weren't coloured, just white, John thought, though they did have coloured loops. To hang them up, Sherlock had casually remarked, though John hadn't asked about them. 

Now John realised they didn't have any hooks to hang them on. Not in the bathroom. Not in the bedroom. Oh. Coloured loops then. OK. 

Kirsty continued....

'There was a lot of washing and laundry. As well as the normal teenage boy..... ahhh ummm....nocturnal issues (at this John went a fetching shade of pink), which horrified and distressed him beyond consoling.......there was another issue in that he would wake and find that he'd wet himself. 

That presented a real issue, not just the psychological one, but also in this case he'd already stripped the bed of everything in the way of bedding, so how on earth do you deal with wet dreams and floods of urine? At first it was a few times a week with the bed wetting, but it was every night soon.

John rubbed his brow with his good hand. Christ. The poor, poor, frightened little sod.

................

'How did you solve it?'

They couldn't. They tried all sorts of things. Alarms which tried to sense when he was going to go, putting sheets back with a rubber sheet underneath, all sorts of things?'

'And what worked?'

'Nothing. He dismantled all the electronics and tried to wire them up to electrocute himself.'

She made a screwed up face.

'He ended up sleeping in a giant plastic crate, I think it was the base of a kennel for giant dog breeds, or maybe a whelping box for a bitch and her puppies? I've no idea where he got it, it smelt a bit doggy, to be honest, so I think he found it and liberated it from somewhere; but it was himself that dragged it in one day and shoved it up the stairs and into his bedroom. No one commented, because it was the first time he'd crossed the hallway for months, so they were just staring at that.'

John lost it at this point a bit.  
'Fuck. Fuck. Fucking hell. Sorry. Sorry for the swearing. It's just really upsetting, you know. Sleeping in a fucking dog bed. Fuck. Did it help? I can't think how it would?'

'It didn't stop him soiling himself with urine, no, not at all. But it was waterproof and it meant he could get up at five and empty and clean it out before anyone else could come and pass judgement. He got old raggy blankets and cushions from charity shops to line it, and burned them after each night. He must have cleaned out the shops within a thirty mile radius of all their textiles I think. 

I suspected at the time he was also stealing stuff, from charity clothing banks, and maybe even from shops, to make up the shortfall. He had a routine going. So he could make his world clean and ok, and like it wasn't going on.'

But there was also the pacing, John. There were creaky floorboards in one corner and you'd hear him go round the room, and then creak, and then he would stop for maybe a minute, and then off again. Endlessly, for hours. Each step the same length as the previous, you could tell after a while. I counted once. Seven hundred and eighty four steps, that night. 

And playing the violin. He knew a wide range of material......before....all sorts.....but afterwards he would only play certain pieces, though we couldn't establish the basis for his choices. 

It was heartbreaking. Really awful. There was nothing I could do to reach him. But why would there be? He'd let this man, that animal, reach him, and he'd manipulated and betrayed him in so vile a way. 

Why let anyone else in? That wouldn't make sense.

So I just sat outside his room, and told him stories of what was going on outside, and read books out loud, and hoped it did some good. I don't know if it did? 

I came less after he went off to Eton, though I still came sometimes in the holidays. He seemed less suicidal then, but more obsessive, more disturbed in some ways. They were always getting phone calls about him having to go to the sanatorium, or the hospital, from fights he'd been in, or asked in for 'little chats' about his behaviour. Then of course, it all got worse again when he went up to Oxford, with the drugs starting, and the run-ins with the police.

...............

She trailed off. 

'Im sorry, you might not have known all this.'

John reassured her, that unfortunately he was only too aware. That it was just the bedroom stuff he hadn't known.

'How did the bedwetting resolve itself? When he went to Eton, I mean? 

Well he was twelve then. They were supposed to be thirteen, post-Common Entrance exam, but of course he blew all the tests out the water, and they'd had Mycroft early too, and though they didn't know the details, they knew that Sherlock really, really needed to be away from this house. The bedwetting had got a little bit less, but he still did have to have special sheets to start with, and you know what schoolboys are like, merciless at any sign of weakness....It was just another reason for him to isolate himself as being different. But school, Eton, did help overall, over time. He gradually got dry there though it took several years for him to be dry here in the holidays.'

She smoothed her hands over her skirt, and looked up with shining eyes.

'But really, enough of all these gloomy reminiscences, John. He's a grown man now, and a handsome one, and I can see in your eyes that you love him beyond all measure. Which I am bloody glad about, because if there's anything that overgrown boy needs, it's love that he knows will never leave him and never betray him.'

John shifted slightly uncomfortably at that, thinking of his morning conversation with the man in questions and his recent track-record. Reminded himself too, that for Sherlock, being a father meant doing it in parallel with all this toxic dump from his own childhood. No wonder he was shit-scared.

.....................

Kirsty wiped her eyes quickly.

'Did you want to see Mrs Holmes? Or Mycroft? Before we see the baby?'

John thought.

'That would be polite, yes, and I have some news for them. A name for the baby.'

Kirsty clapped her hands. Oh, thank heaven! I was dreading what Mycroft might come up with. He is so in love with the baby but some of his name ideas.....really!'

John decided not to ask what names Mycroft might have suggested, but he wasn't sure Kirsty would think that Sherlock's choice was any less bizarre. In fact he was pretty sure it would come into her 'Really!' category. However, it was Sherlock's call, no one else's. And he had proved himself in this respect more of a true Holmes boy than he would ever admit. 

John didn't tell Kirsty the name now, and she didn't ask, realising that it was something that Mycroft and Mrs Holmes should know first. 

....................

Kirsty led John through a series of beautiful rooms and corridors into the oldest, late medieval part of the building, and to the studded door of a formal sitting room. She knocked on the door and popped her head round.

'John Watson, Mrs Holmes? He has some news for you.'

'Thankyou, Kirsty. Perhaps you would like to bring the baby down, in a little while, to join us? I'm sure John has been longing to meet him?'

John stepped forward. 

'That would be wonderful, Mrs Holmes. And it's about the baby I've come.'

Mycroft, sitting in the corner armchair, interjected.

'He's agreed to name the baby, and sent you with his choice.'

'How did you know?'

'From the nervous excited look on your face. But he hasn't agreed to see the baby, has he, or he would have called us down to the Dower House. Am I right?'

'You are, of course, right.' John shook his head. How do they do it?

..............

Mummy Holmes patted the sofa next to her. 

'John, come and sit with me. You look worn out. How is your arm?'

John remembered that it was Mummy Holmes who had engineered his rescue from his rapist and would be murderers. He tried to forget her role in the baby project, in return.

'Thank you, I will. The arm's an unknown quantity still, unfortunately. But I should keep what's left of it, which is the most important thing. It's the most I could hope for.

I won't keep you waiting though. So I'll just come straight out with it.'

And he handed the card over to Mummy Holmes. She could see it was in Sherlock's characteristic scrawl, though thankfully in capitals. She read it, several times. 

Her hand went to her mouth, in emotion, and she handed it on to Mycroft. He looked down at the card, and his mouth silently formed the words, then swallowed, and sat back in his chair. 

''Mycroft'. Hes giving him my name, as his middle name?'

John nodded. 

'Yes. He probably would have chosen it as the first name, I think, but I think he thought that might have got confusing.' 

He was making this bit up but it was part of his building bridges project between the two brothers, and Sherlock MIGHT have thought it.

Mycroft nodded, and swallowed again. He seemed to have been struck a little dumb.

Mummy Holmes, unshockable Mummy, now raised the obvious question, in her characteristically direct way.

'Very good. Not sure about that first name though? What does it mean, John? Or has he gone back on the drugs already?

John smiled. 

'Not drugs. Not for now, anyway. It's apparently Gaelic for 'Bartholomew'. We met at Barts. Hospital. I had nothing to do with the choice, I was just presented with the card as a fait accompli.'

'Well I think it's wonderful, and terribly distinguished. Don't you, Mycroft?'

Mycroft made an expression that could only be described as a tortured cat.

'Its....individual, certainly. And it's his choice. So, 'Parthalan' it is. Is there any shortened form to save us at least some of the humiliation in public spheres? 

Mrs Holmes interjected.

'Dont be so rude, Mycroft.'

John smiled carefully.

'I don't know, Mycroft, he didn't say, perhaps we should use the whole thing for now, to get us all used to it?'

'Quite right, John, of course.'

............

The two men were playing games now. One, the legal co-parent with no genetic link, who had never met the baby; the other the uncle who had effectively arranged for the baby to exist and who was clearly besotted with him.

John now had a cold feeling down his spine: he wondered whether, even if Sherlock now did a U-turn and embraced the child, whether Mycroft would give him up so easily? He needed to know. Before he saw this child and lost his heart to him. He couldn't, just couldn't, cope with losing a child again. Not after Rebecca.....

So he asked. He opened himself up, and was completely honest. It's easier to do that when you've nearly died quite recently, he found. Concentrates the world, and what matters, wonderfully.

He cleared his throat.

'Mycroft. I am desperate to meet Parthalan. It's so close, I can touch it. And I know Sherlock will need to change his approach if he is to take care of his son. But can I be reassured, that if Sherlock does that, and says he wants the child at 221B, and Kirsty moves in there, downstairs, all the necessary conditions, that you will allow that to happen? 

Because to be honest, if there's a chance that's not the case and that you or Mr and Mrs Holmes might oppose custody, or challenge Sherlock's rights, and my own come to that, then you need to tell me now? I completely accept all this is subject to Sherlock not using or having another breakdown which is of such seriousness that it puts the baby at risk and at the same time it happens that I'm too invested in Sherlock's care to look after the baby.

Can you give me that assurance?'

Mycroft smiled a thin smile. 

'If Sherlock is fit and healthy, I could and will not stand in his way. But, as you may have perceived, I feel a close bond with my nephew. He is the nearest thing I will ever have to a son of my own, and I will not allow Sherlock to take any risks with him.'

'So you think I might actually allow that to happen? For Sherlock to endanger the child?

John was less than comforted by Mycroft's equivocal endorsement of his and Sherlock's parental rights.

'Not intentionally. Not at all, John. But Sherlock might, without you being able to stop it? Your very relationship with him compromises your ability to be an independent judge of this.'

'Do you not feel your own deep feelings for the child do so, also, Mycroft?'

John needed to win this one. He ploughed on.

'Look. I have no illusion that Sherlock is capable of reckless actions, which unintentionally might cause danger to a child. However, I think there are several things to remember.

Firstly, we are assuming he cannot change. He can. He already has, since I've know him. The only two sustained drug relapses he's had, were after being sent on a suicide mission by his brother, and after finding out that his brother had left his lover to die at the hands of kidnappers. Pretty good excuses, I'd say. Funny how your involvement seems to trigger it, Mycroft? 

Secondly, none of us in this room, none; are actually objective enough to be imposing our own standard of what is an acceptable and safe situation for this child. It needs, frankly, to be someone who is an expert on child safety and abuse, and who can assess the situation in relation to both Sherlock and Parthalan, but also in respect of myself. 

I would suggest approaching Sherlock's therapist, Tamara. You chose her, Mycroft, so you must trust her, and I know that while Sherlock has found it excruciating, he HAS opened up to her in much more detail than he has ever done to anyone, you and I included, about his issues, so she is absolutely in the best position to make a judgement. The courts will likely agree to that arrangement, too.

Third, we are ignoring the wider context. With respect, it is not necessarily safer or better for the child to be with your parents, who are ageing, or with yourself, who have little time for a child and who are much more of a target now for terrorist or other threats than Sherlock is, now that Sherlock is not doing the profile of cases he was previously. Assuming, as I do, that I can neither work full time as a doctor, or do further work for Six with a rubbish arm, then I will be at home full-time for the foreseeable future, and will be a constant presence for the baby, as well as Kirsty. 

Essentially, Mycroft, Violet, I'm saying I accept there needs to be oversight, but that the child is not fundamentally at higher risk with Sherlock and I, than he would be at Holmes Manor or with you?

And Mycroft, the point is, he would be with his father? Where, in the end, any child without a mothers presence, belongs.'

....................

For John, this was a speech of unprecedented length and daring. Challenging the might of two generations of alpha Holmes in their own living room. John wondered if he would escape alive or if he would suddenly be dropped into a shark tank, like in his beloved Bond films.

Mycroft did not reply, but bowed his head. Was that conceding, John wondered?

As he did so, there came a small knock, and the cook opened the door to let Kirsty with an armful of baby into the room.

The air in the room seemed to freeze completely, at least for John. Kirsty walked over to him, and placed the drowsy bundle in his arms. The cast wasn't too much of a hindrance, and it did keep his forearm straight.

'Baby Holmes', she said proudly.

"Parthalan Mycroft Holmes" John replied, rapt in awe at the sight of the baby, whose every inch he was staring at, drinking it all in, unable to believe that he was holding part of Sherlock. 

Kirsty giggled. 

'I was expecting something outlandish, and, thank The Lord, the Holmes really don't ever disappoint, do they? Is there a shorter version?'

'Oh God', said John. 'I really am going to have to get him to tell us that, but it was tough enough getting the name. Leave it with me, could you?' 

Kirsty nodded, and left John and Mycroft with the baby.

And John gently touched the baby's face with the index finger on his good hand, peering down into those almond eyes, so incredibly like Sherlock's. His hair was the same colour too, perhaps a little finer, that might be from Anthea's side. But he had the same otherworldly look to him. He was beautiful, John thought, just bloody perfect. He'd by now forgotten that anyone else was in the room at all. He started to whisper to the baby, all about how they were going to meet his Papa very soon, and that they were going to go to Baker Street and meet Mrs Hudson, who would adore him. 

About how wonderful his Papa was, and how proud he would be of his son.

...........

Mycroft had been standing near the window, looking out. Hearing everything. Not commenting. 

He turned now, however, and gave a wan smile. .

After ten minutes, Parthalan seemed to grow restless and John reluctantly handed him back to Mycroft, who took him off to see Kirsty. 

..............

John now stood by the window, gazing out, and hadn't noticed Mr Holmes coming quietly into the room: he wasn't even sure when he had done so, but suddenly, there he was, standing at John's shoulder. He was a little frailer now than when John had met him in Scotland at Hogmanay, but a much better colour than when he'd last seen him, when Mycroft broke the news of the pregnancy the night before Mr Holmes' heart surgery. 

'It's good to see you, sir. You're looking well. And, I'm sorry about all the things that have happened.'

John was of course referring to his vicious attack on Sherlock in his sleep, close to a year ago, which had come close to killing him. He didn't know how Sherlock's father would view him now? He knew Mummy Holmes was willing to forgive, with the proviso that there were safety protocols like the electronic alarm to indicate when John might go into a PTSD nightmare. But he hadn't spoken to Mr Holmes.

'John. You have no apology to make. Your presence is the only thing that can, or ever has, given my son the wish to make any kind of long-term future for himself. What more can a father ask of his child's partner?'

John swallowed hard. Nodded. Couldn't make eye contact for fear of breaking down. And decided to confide in this kind, mild man who seemed as bemused by his wife's fire and intelligence as John often was with Sherlock.

'The thing is, this baby is something of a Pandoras Box. Mycroft is devoted to him and may not give him up, using the pretext about Sherlock's suitability as a parent. I adore him already, only having met him once. Sherlock won't have anything to do with him. I don't know where to go from here?'

Sherlock's father sighed.

'If Sherlock's named him, he'll come round one day, I believe, John. But I'm sure he feels like a rat in a trap at the moment. Because he is, the poor beggar. I tried talking Violet out of all this, after all it's my family name she's trying to continue, but she and Mycroft together are an unstoppable force. They don't collaborate often, but when they do....well, John, you learn to stand back, and come back when it's all over to pick up the pieces.

Don't worry about the baby for now, John. He's safe here with us, and Mycroft has to return to London tonight. Stay here or go back to Baker Street and get better, both of you. Baby, or as I should probably say now, Parthalan, will be safe. 

It is Mummy and me, not Mycroft, who have custody of him. There's another fortnight of that to run until any decisions need to be made by the court. If Sherlock feels better, and willing by then, then he can go home with you two, where he belongs.

Mr Holmes put his hand on John's shoulder. 

I won't let Mycroft take him away, John. He's your child, yours and Sherlock's, and he belongs with you. Unless Sherlock goes completely off the rails, that's the way it is. I have a lot more influence with Mummy and Mycroft than you would think: I just choose to exercise it sparingly, to maintain its efficacy.....'

At that he smiled, and patted John's back. 

.............

John felt like weeping with relief, just to have an ally in the family. He didn't know if Mr Holmes really had the authority to carry it off, but he just felt happy to hear the reassuring words.

'Thankyou so much.'

Mr Holmes smiled.

'Just try and bring Sherlock round. Maybe enough just to trial having the baby at home. You'll be there all the time, he won't need to do very much. 

The man's being daft, of course, but I think he hasn't realised that he's made any progress in growing up these past months, and in reality he's made a lot. In Mycroft's defence, finding Tamara and blackmailing Sherlock into seeing her and engaging with her, could make all the difference to Sherlock, long term, even though it's excruciating for him to go through short-term.'

John nodded, now feeling able to consider the challenge.

'I will. And thankyou again.'

He felt he loved Sherlock's father more than he'd ever done his own Dad. But then, Sherlock's Dad was showing him more love than his own ever had, so perhaps that was fair? 

He decided to refuse to feel guilty about it.

...............

When he got back to the Dower House, full of good intentions about charming Sherlock into being happy about the plan for baby Parthalan, he found an empty house and a scrawled note waiting for him. It read:

'Gone to see Tamara for session. Back about 10pm. Tried to make lunch but I'm not sure it looks right? SH'

John peered at the congealed mess in a pan on the stove. What even was that? It looked very firmly adhered, whatever it was. Cooking was not Sherlocks forte, despite the chemistry. He tended to get distracted, or do it when he was already distracted. As was clearly the case here.

Why had he gone to see Tamara, and at such short notice? And was this terrible attempt at lunch some form of peace offering, inedible though it was?

He scraped Sherlock's offering into the bin, and put the pan in to soak, and chewed his lip thoughtfully. Then pulled out a tin of soup and a stale croissant for his lunch. He hoped Sherlock might find John's ultimatum easier to swallow than John had found Sherlock's food. 

As he sat, and ate, Kirsty's words replayed back through his mind. 

By the time he finished eating, he felt distinctly uncomfortable with the very ultimatum he had felt he had no choice but to impose. The anger which drove him to make it began to drain away from him, replaced by outrage that a family had chosen to put their son in this position at all, and deep searing compassion for a man who was terrified of failing his child, as adults had failed him.

He left the rest of his food. He was no longer hungry. 

He wanted Sherlock home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only taken me eighteen chapters to grant poor Baby Holmes a name....I trust it is suitably Holmesian :-) and an improvement on the curious idea that Sherlock and John would name their child Hamish, given that John doesn't seem to like his middle name that much....
> 
> At least it will save me having to refer to him as 'Baby' any more!
> 
> NB: I'm not a Gaelic speaker: in my area of Scotland it is the Doric dialect, not Gaelic, that's historically been spoken. So I have relied on the joys of the internet to discover the name. If Parthalan actually means "dog poo" in Gaelic, please do let me know.....:-)


	19. Sherlock gets some good advice, and comes to a decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following represents Tamara "off duty" giving Sherlock advice, and isn't being presented in any way as a formal therapy session. 
> 
> I'm proud of it, a bit :-)

"Damaged people are dangerous  
They know they can survive."

JOSEPHINE HART

 

Sherlock sat in the reception area of Tamara's - whatever it was, clinic? Office? - and rested his head against the chair next to his. He'd driven down to London in a hurry, swiping the limo keys off the hall table in the chauffeur's flat, whilst the man  
slept snoring in the armchair; though Sherlock did at least leave a note to avoid the man being sacked when the car was found to be missing. 

That was John's influence on him, he knew. The old pre-Watson Sherlock would never have considered the chauffeur getting into trouble as a relevant concern. 

He would have gone by train, but the "Great Western" line from Bath to Paddington was horrendously slow in places, a legacy of its age; and in any case, it only got him as far as, well, Paddington; far to the west of where he needed to be. So car, and another parking ticket for Mycroft, it was.

Sherlock was tired now. He was very uncharacteristically tired all the time at the moment. It might be the withdrawal, but he felt more that, it was the burden of always feeling trapped. His current trap was probably the worst he'd been in so far, because it involved a whole other human life.

.......... 

He had been lucky, he knew, to get this appointment at such short notice. Lucky in the sense that Tamara was far too busy to see him, but his case always intrigued her. Not so much the bare facts; it was he, Sherlock, that intrigued her, he knew.

Tamara appeared now, smiling and said he could go in. She'd booked out several hours; hours when she had been planning to work on a briefing she was giving to the UN next week. But when Sherlock called - and specifically because he never called these days - she put that work off. There were always the night hours to catch up. Sherlock might not call again if she turned him away.

They were in a different room than normal. And she had agreed with him beforehand, that she might call on some different specialists, based in the same building, should it seem useful. He'd agreed, surprisingly. Too cooperative: he was clearly very rattled, she thought. 

Tamara wasn't actually intending to call anyone, of course, she was just testing his reactions.....

..............

After the usual social niceties were complete, not taking long with neither of them setting much store by them, Tamara kicked off. 

'So, Sherlock. How have things been, since we last met?'

It took him a while. He was hesitant to speak of much of it, partly because of his M16 aspect of work; but in the end, because he trusted this woman, and so did Mycroft, he did speak with her. 

He spoke not of his work so much, but of Wasim (whom Sherlock called Abdullah for security reasons), the boxing and, slowly and painfully hesitantly, of John's assault on him. About how he had stayed, when he knew he should leave, for fear of finding out if John would have let him go; the fear of knowing the answer being greater for him than the reality of the assault itself. His conscious choice to stay. The anger and the assault. His decision to delete and to forgive.

John's kidnapping, injury and rape, (without mentioning the nature of the mission or the character of the extraction mission); and his own family's failure to rescue John until that last, terrible thing happened to him. 

Sherlock's suicide attempt, via overdoses of heroin and cocaine. Mycroft finding him close to death. Hospital. Reuniting with John. John's depression about his arm and the rape.

The birth of Sherlock's son. His brother's partial appropriation of the child. John's longing to meet the boy. His own rejection of his child, to date. The fact he'd never even met him, though he'd left John behind in Bath today, doing just that. His concession in naming his tiny son.

More traps, more Sherlock cornered in corners of rooms in his mind. More hideous jagged reasons, why he and John could not heal themselves slowly and together, at Baker Street, alone, where they belonged. 

He tried to explain all that, slowly and falteringly. It felt like vomiting himself up in front of someone who just looked on, and nodded, and made brief shorthand notes. And whose pen occasionally hovered, at one point for over five minutes solid, or pressed quite hard into the paper.

....................

Tamara sat and listened to this outpouring of yet more trauma and psychological strain piled onto this man. And she inwardly cursed the very name of his stupid arrogant family, for ever thinking that this baby idea was a safe or appropriate decision for a man with Sherlock's issues and state of mind. 

She was especially frustrated with Mycroft, who on one hand called her in to deal with Sherlock's problems; then on the other, for what Tamara saw as ultimately selfish and misguided reasons, gave her client a whole new raft of lifetime issues to handle. Perhaps it was Mycroft who should be sitting here? she mused. It would never happen, he was too careful to maintain a thick layer of calm rationality and the intelligence security issues meant it would never happen; but there was much behind that smooth, blank facade she would have liked to explore. 

She wondered about John, too. She hadn't met him, but Sherlock's descriptions were vivid, and she did have his classified file, courtesy of Mycroft. It was lengthy and spoke of a conflicted personality, a danger addict who resented his addictions and was searingly angry about the events that had befallen him. 

She also had security clearance sufficient to fill in most of the gaps in Sherlock's own narrative. 

John's assault on Sherlock deeply concerned her, of course, as did, even more, Sherlock's puppy-like willingness to instantly forgive and forget. Going back straight away to the master who kicked him and metaphorically licking his knees.

But she looked not at John's actions in isolation, as a court might have to, if John had been brought before them, but at the overall patterns of the personalities, the experiences, the motivations, the triggers, for these two people. When she did that, she thought there was some hope that anything similar could be avoided in the future, given appropriate protocols and strategies employed by both parties.

She could help them with that, she knew. 

She also realised early on in Sherlock's speech, that nothing at all must be written down about that part of Sherlock's narrative, about John's attack. Hence the pen hovering at that point. Mycroft must be still unaware of that event, or John would have been left to his captors, she felt sure. And he had ways of acquiring therapists notes. If he ever learned of the incident, then whatever the impact on Sherlock, John would be doomed, either to prison or much worse. 

So, no notes of that incident. She had her room swept for bugs before Sherlock arrived, anyway, in anticipation of classified material needing to be raised. Verbal testimony was safe.

.............

When Sherlock had trailed off, explaining that he'd named the baby and there were only two weeks left until the court needed to decide whether to extend the residence order in favour of his parents, or to allow him and John to reclaim their child, Tamara took his hand, and looked him in the eyes. 

'This isn't really a therapy session, is it Sherlock? You want advice today, I am sensing? Advice from someone who you have shared your past with, in a way you haven't been able to do with anyone else?'

Sherlock nodded.

'I don't want to explore stuff. I understand it. I know what's happened. I want to know what you think I should do now, for the future; what you think will be least harmful to me and to John, based on what you know about me, and about us? 

‘I suppose I do want advice from you. I'll still make the decision, but it will help, I think.'

Tamara nodded.

'Okay. So this is off the record stuff. So that means what I'm going to say isn't therapy, it's just me talking as another human being who has the benefit of that knowledge, and is reasonably articulate, and has got to know you over the past nine or ten months. 

‘That's fine. Okay, here goes. 

‘You know, Sherlock, that this baby was a really, really bad idea. That makes you wiser than your family, I feel. It WAS a bad idea! You are right to be afraid. It is OK for you to be frightened. You are frightened because you understand the risks, which they selfishly ignore. 

‘Your family went ahead, and there is a child. 

You know John yearns for a child. You love John. Yet your own desire for freedom is not compromised by your relationship with John: in fact, you see your only freedom lying in your mutual interdependence? That's not the healthiest relationship, Sherlock. You need to aim to see John’s love as the icing on your already "free" cake, not the sole means of achieving that freedom? But that's for another day. You are how you are today.’

‘Picture yourselves, for me, Sherlock, ten years from now. Just you two, at Baker Street, no baby. Approaching your fifties, no longer up to racing around the streets, or maybe losing the appetite for it. Perhaps one of you losing the other, taking one chance too many? Assume not. The two of you then; together, but slowing down. Having to focus in on each other. 

‘Time for old resentments to resurface. Perhaps? 

‘John, never the parent he's longed to be? And you, knowing that out there is your son, who might be anything. Might be just like you in the best way. Might be completely different to you. May not have your struggles, Sherlock. May be happy, and excited about life, and want to share that with you. Would have been a child for John to love, and maybe you too; but think about John, Sherlock. 

‘Think about John.

‘You had the greatest gift he's ever wanted, a child: and you, who love him in a depth and a way that most people are never lucky enough to experience, would deny him it because you are jealous. Jealous of the baby, and jealous of him. 

‘Jealous in the way a child is jealous, because that is the mode you operate in, when personal relationships are involved. You are obsessive. You want to own and possess and exclude all others. Even if "others" includes your own child.

‘But you gave this baby a name, Sherlock. You didn't need to do that. That was you, unconsciously staking a claim to the child. It is. You named him, because he is yours and no one else's to name. You are not as immune to this child as you choose to profess.

‘Think of it this way. You have a devoted lover, who has made some terrible mistakes and who knows that. Who understands that he needs to examine and understand himself, as much if not more than you do, because your pain expresses in self harm, but his expression, his manifestations of his own pain, hurts those around him, and especially you.

‘This lover of yours, your John, he needs to be a parent, Sherlock. 

‘Give him this baby. Let him love it. Remain aloof from it if you wish. But remember, if you allow yourself to become jealous of the attention he gives the baby, you will lose both of them.

‘But if you don't do this, then Sherlock, you may well lose John anyway, and never have the baby in the first place.'

..................

Sherlock looked at Tamara. He twisted the paper handkerchief, that he had no memory of picking up, in his hands.

'So you are saying that I'm right to be angry (nod) and right to think the baby was a bad idea (nod), but that now he's here, I should make John happy by giving in and us taking on the baby?'

...................

Tamara smiled. 

'I wouldn't call it giving in, you know, Sherlock. Try not to see it that way. 

‘I think your relationship with John, whatever anyone tries to say: that it's unhealthy and it is in a way; it's too obsessive on both your parts to be otherwise; is how it is. 

‘And in the light of that, your most likely happy outcome of what is, Sherlock, not the ostrich-head-in-hole "pretend baby had never happened" reality you've been hiding in to date, but reality with your baby existing in it; is to make John so happy that he practically bursts. Because so much of your concept of your own happiness is tied up and intertwined with his.

‘Sure, you will get "less" of him. But you will get better John, happier John, more fulfilled John, when you do have him. And having a nanny will mean you do get some exclusive time to be just a couple, to run around and solve crimes and time for yourselves as a couple, and as lovers. You are lucky. Most parents don't get any of that together time.

‘I know you think that you should be "enough" for him. That he shouldn't need more than you. You miss the life you used to share. But you need to be honest with yourself, Sherlock. You've also told me, have you not, of the parts of you yourself, that you've had to look elsewhere for, the beatings, the physical stuff? There are parts of you, yourself, Sherlock, that you acknowledge to be damaged or missing, because of what you have gone through in your early life. 

‘John, too, has parts of him that need filling, empty or damaged parts. You give him much of that, but his trust issues are so deep that it is not surprising that he craves the love of the one sort of being, other than regrettably short-lived canines, that can offer total, unconditional love. The love of a baby and of a child.

‘When the abuse happened, not to another person, Sherlock, not to 'William who is another person', but to you, Sherlock; you had no agency, and no choice. You were told that you did, by your abuser, but it was a lie. Like all the other things he told you were lies, carefully constructed to control you and to manipulate you. 

‘And the fact he succeeded didn't make him right, Sherlock; he succeeded because he was an adult and you were a child and he promised you things that as a child, you lacked and you craved. Love, attention, affection, shared secrets. 

‘You had no choice but to be manipulated. That's how manipulation works. 

‘And then, after that, to be able to feel you could exercise choices where there really was only one sensible path, you created artificial alternatives for yourself. Created choices, if you like. Harmful ones, drugs, sex relationships that exploited and damaged you, social and sexual isolation. 

‘They weren't really valid positive choices at all. But they made you feel as if you were choosing, that you had taken back that agency, in the only way that your abuser had taught you how.

.................

‘Now, it's the same deal. You want to choose to erase the reality, because it's too painful for you, and you're too afraid. But the reality is that the choice to do that, the pretence that you have the choice to walk away without consequences, will create more long term pain than anything else. For you, for John and in the end, for your relationship. 

‘And you're right to be angry, you're being given no choice in a situation where you absolutely should have had one. You absolutely should have, Sherlock. 

‘But creating an illusory choice doesn't solve that absence. 

‘My personal view? I think you will find it very difficult indeed, at first, Sherlock, to be a functional and effective father to your child. 

‘But I also think that's OK, because you need that time and space. The baby is small enough that they are really not going to remember and from what you have told me of your John, I think he has more than enough parental skills and bandwidth to do the job for the both of you. 

‘Let him, Sherlock. Let him.

‘His injury is going to have a deep and permanent effect on his abilities to do the other things that give him meaning, outside his relationship with you. He lost part of that in Afghanistan and now, he's losing the rest of it. 

‘He won't be able to work as a doctor any more, Sherlock, probably not ever. And when that really hits him, he's either going to implode or explode unless there is something there to ground him. Having this child, who really needs him to keep himself functioning, may well be the thing that brings him through.

‘And I do not, Sherlock, and I want you to watch me as I say this, I do not think that you will be a danger to your child.

‘You said that you used the drugs because you didn't have the courage (though that's not a word I'd use) to kill yourself straight off. Even when you are suicidal, there is rationality to your thinking, and your desire to die is not a clear one.

‘I do however think, Sherlock, and I don't think that you have perhaps considered this enough to date, that potentially John could be a great danger to himself? John is not like you, Sherlock. He absolutely would take that drastic route to commit suicide. So people, yourself included, may well not get the chance to intervene and save him. He's much higher risk to do it once, and succeed first time. 

‘You have to stop him turning down that track in the first place. And while I would never recommend having a baby to solve an issue for someone, ever, this baby who is already here could be John's salvation and reason to keep on keeping on.’

......................

She smiled at him now. He didn't usually like people doing that, but he didn't mind with her.

'Have you talked with John about the baby. Really talked, I mean?'

Sherlock wriggled uncomfortably. 

'No. We have avoided discussing it.'

He saw her expression. 

'I know. I know.'

'What about John's injury and his future?' 

'Not that either. He gets angry when the arm is mentioned. And there isn't much certainty about what it will be like? I haven't seen it, it's still encased in plaster.'

Tamara shook her head. She clearly thought the consulting detective was being a bit dim.

'And you think John hasn't got a pretty good idea himself? Despite his being a doctor, and having performed surgery himself? I would be very surprised, Sherlock, if he doesn't know pretty much what the deal is with that arm of his and is currently dealing with that all on his own.'

Sherlock began to look guilty now. He hadn't really been much concerned with John's traumas, he'd been too wrapped up in his own. 

..................

'And the rape, the violent assault that John suffered? Have you talked? Have you been able to make love yet?'

Sherlock started scuffing the floor with his foot, looking down. 

'We haven't really talked, I tried to raise it once but....he didn't want to discuss it. I haven't dared suggest sex and he hasn't initiated anything, just holding each other a bit. We haven't talked about it. I'm scared in case he gets angry or it triggers flashbacks for him.'

Tamara sighed. 

'You must talk. And you must touch, Sherlock. Even though it's a risk. 

‘Let him get angry. I don't think it's likely that it will trigger him into hurting you again, from what you've told me, but if you are concerned, use the help that's available to you. Come here with him. Go to his own therapist and do it. Go to Scotland Yard and commandeer an interview room with two way glass so that the Met can monitor what's going on. They would turn a blind eye and set it up, if Mycroft put the pressure on. 

‘Don't be embarrassed, be safe. 

‘Bear in mind also, Sherlock, that the state of John's arm means that he's unlikely to retain a physical advantage over you, ever again. Make sure he's unarmed and that nothing usable is within reach and if you are ever worried, leave before you feel things have got too far for you to do so. Follow that, and you should be quite safe.

‘Notwithstanding that, you obviously shouldn't be put in a position where you are frightened of John's reactions to difficult subjects, but those subjects HAVE to be tackled, and not left to fester. 

‘Otherwise, what is left between you? Him thinking you are repulsed by him because of what happened to him and you thinking that he is too affected by the attack to want to screw you, or that he might hurt you because the activity might cause flashbacks? 

‘I completely understand there may be physical and emotional blocks initially, for him in scenarios where he is the recipient, but, getting a bit personal with the questions now, Sherlock, how do you play it when you make love?'

Sherlock went pink. 

'Nearly always, Um, John tops. I - we both. Like that. And also.....he's kind of the boss in the bedroom, very much.' (Pink face now bright red. Sherlock could discuss his horrific sexual past now with Tamara fairly openly, but discussing current vanilla practises was somehow a different matter. Kind of ironic...). 

'We do switch, but it's probably a handful of times a year maybe. That's just - well. Us.'

Tamara nodded. 

'That's good, then. Makes things easier. Much less likely to trigger. He's on top and he's also in control. The total opposite of his rape experience. I think you will be safe.

‘Seduce him, Sherlock. Do whatever it is you do to turn him on and get him firing, enough so as to overcome his hesitations. Let him show you that he's the best lover in the world....'

'He is', Sherlock mutters and Tamara smiled. 

'There you are then. You're a lucky man.

‘But discuss his arm too. His future. Your future, too. Where you two go from here, professionally as well as personally.

...................

‘I'm going to conclude soon.

‘But I think that in the long term, Sherlock, one day, you will be an excellent father. 

‘Given the time to come to terms with that role, and John's support; and once this child and any others you have are older, I think you will wonder in five or ten years time, why it wasn't you arranging for this baby to happen? 

‘But it might take that long and it might be very hard at times to cope.

It's easy for me to say, and much harder for you to believe. I know that.

‘I do think that whatever the pressures are that led you to seek relief from them outside of your relationship with John, for completely understandable reasons, that you need to stop them, Sherlock. No more corporal punishment with friends of Mycroft's. It stops here.

‘I know you are concerned about the risk to John from the things that you ask him to do in that regard, but there are rules and protocols that you can put in place; and you are seriously at greater risk of losing John from continuing to look elsewhere for aspects of your physical relationship, than you are from him. 

‘He's not a Holmes, Sherlock and he doesn't see or understand the world of BDSM as you do, or your brother does. To him, going to someone for that is a total betrayal of your relationship, and he would class it very firmly as sexual infidelity. And a man like John is made incredibly unhappy by any idea of infidelity, to the point that it could be a major contribution to his potentially becoming severely depressed or worse. 

‘So I would strongly recommend that all that stuff should stay within the home. Or a club, if you prefer, if having people around makes you feel safer and John can accept it: but either way, it needs to be solely and exclusively involving John.

‘It's time for you to go home, now, Sherlock. With John, with your son and for you build a life for the three of you. Don't let your past dictate your future, not any more. 

‘And don't try to build a normal two parenting model sharing equal duties with the child. Your model will be different, will need to be different; I think John can work with that. For the sake of the child, work this in the way that keeps the child, yourself and John safe, stable and together, whatever that looks like.

‘Perfection comes in many shapes, Sherlock, and it's not usually the one that outsiders want to see, or that we ourselves have aimed to build. It can look misshapen and even ugly from the outside. That doesn't make it any less perfect.'

................

Sherlock frowned. Tamara could see he was taking all this seriously, and puzzling over how he could decide what he needed to do.

There was one more thing he wanted to raise, though. Something specific. 

'Tamara, one of the things that scares me, makes me think I shouldn't take the baby home, is that I read stuff, articles that say those who have been abused are more likely to abuse themselves. And it terrifies me.'

Tamara sighed. 

'Sometimes I wish the internet didn't exist. 

‘There's probably some element of a very small increased risk, Sherlock. But we are talking about a very, very small minority still. And the evidence suggests it isn't specifically or solely the sexual abuse that produces increased risk, but rather a combination of that with emotional neglect, and other physical abuse, in combination. 

In other words, you as a sexual abuse victim who was not subject to these other types of abuse, except perhaps some excessive isolation, are at extremely low extra risk of offending. In addition, you are almost forty, and have shown no signs at all of high risk behaviours towards children or adults in the past. Which pretty much mitigates any increased risk factor.

‘Sherlock, I really don't think that you need to worry about that. Stop reading internet articles in the middle of the night. Take control and be confident. You are not going to abuse your child, you are going to love them and enjoy them and show them all the wonders of the things that amaze and delight you about the world. It's what makes people love you, and they do love you, Sherlock, and your child will love you for it, too.'

Sherlock nodded. He did feel reassured. He wondered how Mycroft, whose meddling had produced so many negative unintended consequences for them all, had managed to pull off an unqualified success in finding Tamara, who had managed what no one had ever done before; to make him talk, and give advice he felt he could trust.

.........................

He said nothing out loud, beyond the usual formalities as he left. But he felt she could read his mind. As he got to the door, his hand on the handle to leave, he hesitated, nodded, and then continued out. 

Tamara smiled as she watched his progress out to the car through the window, his casual throwing of the parking ticket onto a pile of what were clearly predecessors, and then the screeching off into the traffic. 

She wondered about the baby. Sherlock had said he was the offspring of himself and one of Mycroft's top agents. 

She hoped this baby would have a better time of it than his father. And that she would be invited to meet the baby one day, in Baker Street. He would be a remarkable child, she was sure.

..................

Sherlock as he drove off from Tamara's office, actually considered going to Baker Street before returning to Bath; but something, something that buzzed around in him, in his brain, stopped him. 

It was as if he needed to understand who exactly he was going back as, before he stepped across the beloved portal once again. Was John going to be with him? Was the baby? And what was the future for his work? 221B was his cocoon, and he felt it would not welcome him, if he did not grasp now what type of creature he was, to crawl back into its comforting embrace.

He bought some food from the Marks and Spencer food shop on the M4 as he drove back towards Bath. That would surprise John, he knew....

His brain was buzzing with too much information. He wasn't sure if he'd ever met anyone as wise as Tamara? Mycroft was the cleverest man he knew and John was the best and bravest one, but Tamara somehow seemed to make the impossible and complex issues unwind into simple, logical, possible realities. She was the wisest person he knew. 

Now, he knew, he would have to work out for himself whether he had the courage to accept her conclusions. 

...............

Back at the Dower house, seeing Sherlock's note earlier that day, had set John thinking about his own physical and emotional healing. He telephoned and arranged to go down to the hospital that afternoon, to discuss his arm with his surgeon. 

Then he picked up the telephone again and called his therapist, Mark Leonard, to arrange to meet him in Bristol the following day. Bristol was convenient to where Mark was working, and it was accessible by train from Holmes Manor. John didn't mind using the Holmes limo to cadge a lift to Bath station, but he didn't want to take it up for the length of time Bristol would take. Of course in theory one could drive, he had a licence. But, looking down at his arm he knew he might as well ask to hover-board along the Lower Bristol Road....

He did use the services of the car and driver to get him to the hospital though. His surgeon was waiting for him in a small offshoot of the orthopaedic ward. 

..................

John started by asking how long it would be before he could get more idea of the functionality he retained.

'Anywhere between now and six months. But we can get an indication. If we take off your current cast today and then re-cast, we can check on the condition of the arm and also do some very gentle tests on your functional abilities. It'll be really important that you only make exactly the movements I ask and otherwise keep the arm absolutely still, as the bones are still knitting and with the state of the arm in general we really, really, don't want to have to start chopping away again. Does that sound like a plan?'

John swallowed hard. He hadn't really expected to be told very much today, but it looked like he would after all. 

'Yeah, that could be good. Thankyou.'

..............

The existing rather grubby plaster cast was very gradually and gently sawn away. John had no idea what the arm was going to look like, except the phrase "shark attack". And when the white, weak looking limb with its deep red and pink wounds appeared complete with skin grafts, John did conclude that "shark attack" was a pretty good way of describing it. 

It was fucking awful. Stare-at-you-in-the-street awful. Pull your children away before they made a rude comment about the man with the arm awful. 

He really did want to be grateful, to keep to his mantra about just being glad to have kept the arm, but he was human, with a human's vice of vanity and he'd never been stunning looking, but at least he'd been whole. 

Thank god for sleeves, for out in public. That didn't, of course, help with how you looked when you were at home, in your bedroom, with your partner, the partner who was pretty much a vision like a marble statue. John wondered now whether he would have been better off losing the arm? He could be a statue too, then, but more of a Venus de Milo, minus a limb...Thinking about this slightly sick joke for some reason made him rethink his priorities and realise that, disfigured or not, he still wanted this limb. Especially if there was any hope of holding Parthalan using it. 

................

The surgeon didn't judge him on his obvious distress. He gave it a few minutes for John to process his reactions, and then asked John if he was ready to try a few tests. John hummed and then nodded. 

The tests were very small movements using each muscle in turn. By the end it was clear that John could move his arm at the elbow and could twist his wrist, though bending it up and down was difficult. His grip in his fingers was very poor, but it wasn't clear how much of that was down to muscle wastage and how much permanent damage. Even if minor now, it might in years to come get worse, as it would be prone to arthritic changes.

It was kind of what the surgeons and John had expected, but which John had found it impossible to prepare himself for. He asked about holding a baby, would that be possible? The surgeon thought it would be, definitely and that gave John some comfort. 

His life couldn't be what it had been, but he might be able to be reasonably functional in a parenting role. 

If Sherlock would let him. 

He wasn't hopeful that this would be the case.

......................

As he left the hospital, a new gleaming white cast on his arm, he thought again about the price he had paid for his thirst for danger and excitement. He doubted it was worth it, until he thought about all the casualties he had saved in the missions prior to that last disastrous one.

Then, he concluded that yes, on balance it was worth it, but it didn't mean he knew any better how he was going to live with the results, especially if he was living without Sherlock in the short term; if Sherlock abandoned his son and ran off back to Baker Street to play at being the married-to-my-work-but-slightly-flirting consulting detective conversing with his rapist's skull, and probably getting his rocks off in some Dom's boudoir, or even shooting up in an alley again?

........................

He got back long before Sherlock and, tired after the hospital visit, took the opportunity to sleep on the sofa, before wandering out onto the terrace with his teacup and sitting down, dozed off once again.

.......................

Sherlock didn't come back straight to the Dower House from London. He stopped the car at the entrance to Holmes Manor and sat there, motionless, for almost an hour. It was fortunate the tiny dead-end lane rarely saw traffic, as there was no passing place for miles. He tapped at the steering wheel in distraction, endlessly hammering out the rhythm of "Scheherazade", that most infectious and catchy of classical works.

He could see the roof of the Manor, the stone roof tiles mottled with orange and green lichen, a sign of clean air and a lack of pollution. See the stone chimneys, large and defiant. Even see the incongruity of the television aerial bolted to the main chimney, though his parents rarely watched anything except the cricket (father) and Strictly Come Dancing (both of them) and sometimes BBC Alba (father) for Scottish programmes.

He'd thought, more than once, when he was young, about burning this whole damn place to the ground. He'd had plenty of opportunity and he genuinely did feel at the time that it would make him feel better. All the smells and objects and locations would all be gone, cleansed through the redemption of fire and ashes.

But though he could rarely express love openly to his blameless parents, the knowledge of just how much they loved the place and saw it as a core element of the family, had stopped him, just. He got as far as lighting a fire, once, and then put it out. 

He couldn't go back to the Manor, but they didn't want to lose it. So the old house stood, still; as it had for centuries, unblinking at the turmoil and human tragedy that had played out within its walls. Nothing could cleanse it sufficiently now for Sherlock to return within those walls, he knew, however close he had come now. 

He looked away from it, once more, and sat back, closing his eyes. Gradually, some peace came to his thoughts. Some calm. 

He had made his decision. He just didn't know if he could carry it off.

..............

At length, he looked at himself in the car rear view mirror. Stared at his reflection and wondered if he was doing the right thing? Whether he and John could live with the consequences, or whether it would destroy him and them, ruining Parthalan's young life.

There was only one way to find out. 

He dumped the limo at the coach house and slipped the disgruntled driver £50 to keep him sweet.

Then he walked down the short path leading to the Dower House, his shopping bag of food swinging. He deposited the food in the fridge and set about finding John. 

............. 

He didn't have far to look. John was peacefully sleeping (new cast on his arm? What's that all about?) and looked far less depressed and careworn like this. His T shirt was rucked up and Sherlock could see that line of soft hair leading down from his navel to the top of his jeans, and just a small glimpse of scarlet underpants. 

Sherlock never understood why John always had this effect on him, this surge of hunger and helpless desire, but as surely as night follows day, here it was again, the waves of it washing through him and causing him to stagger slightly, feeling lightheaded now, reaching for the bench for support.

Once he recovered his composure a little, Sherlock leaned over John, and kissed him softly on the lips. They tasted of tea, hospital and John. John's eyes flashed open in shock and he began to flinch away, before he realised where he was and that it was Sherlock. He smiled, another of his small, wan smiles. 

'I bought food,' Sherlock said. 'Are you hungry? I am.'

John blinked. Sherlock was never hungry and never bought food. 

He nodded dumbly. 

.................

He was even more surprised when Sherlock took to the kitchen, and smells which were not solely of Burnt Offerings, emerged. He tiptoed to the kitchen, and stood in the doorway, observing the chaos. 

There were some bits of something on the floor where something had fallen and the would be chef had clearly decided it could be scraped up and put back in the container, which John decided to ignore. But it did all smell good, and for the first time since his rescue, John actually felt both hungry enough, and confident enough in the healing of his wounds, to want to eat properly, without worrying that he might reopen the stitching in his intimate zones, which in itself made him feel a lot less humiliated and depressed.

'What's cooking?' 

They were still dancing figuratively around one another, only exchanging small talk. But at least they were talking. 

....................

After dinner, which turned out to be a surprisingly good lasagne, and after, (wait for it), Sherlock had washed up, Sherlock and John repaired to the sitting room.

Sherlock decided to break the silence.

'New cast?'

'Yeah, I went and saw the surgeon.'

‘Any news on the arm?’

‘They tested it a bit in between casts. I hadn't seen the arm before. It's fucking hideous, Sherlock. And there's some movement that I can't do, well, not yet anyway.'

John fell silent. He looked devastated.

Sherlock looked at him and spoke softly.

'You do know, don't you John, that there is nothing, literally nothing, in this world, that could happen to you, to your body, that would change the way I feel about you, or make me not desire you? I can't prove that, I know, because the cast is still on and I can't see the wounds, but it's true. You know I'm not squeamish about anything.'

‘'Yeah, well, thanks. I think. Though I'd be disturbed if you desired any of the gruesome things you take an interest in sometimes, to be honest.'

It wasn't really funny, not much of a joke, but it was the nearest John had got since....well since he was injured. Sherlock smiled. 

..............

'You went to see Tamara. Was it helpful?'

John was looking quizzical. Sherlock was just glad he was talking about something to distract him from the arm.

'Extraordinarily so. Honestly, John, that woman is just something else. She didn't really do anything specific to win my trust, or make me talk to her; I just find myself doing it. I think she might be a genuine white witch.'

'Did she help you get your thoughts in place?'

'She did more than that, it was more advice than therapy, at my request, this time. Tamara the life coach. Anyway, enough about my day.' 

Sherlock was going to come back to it but wanted to frame the context. He knew the next part was going to be difficult.

...................

'What about you? You went up to the Manor? Broke the news on the name? How did that go? I imagine you met the baby?'

'Yep. I broke the news to reactions of horror and amusement and bafflement; talked to Kirsty for a long while (at this, Sherlock's head snapped up and he narrowed his gaze; John ignored it) and yes, Sherlock, I met your son. Only managed to get him out of Mycroft's greedy grasp for ten minutes or so, but........ I met him. 

‘I held him, Sherlock. And he was perfect, and he looks just like you. And I held him and I cuddled him and I smelt him and felt his breath on my face and kissed his tiny fingers....

‘.....And then I gave him back, Sherlock, had to give him back, given away to relations who are not his father. 

‘I don't think I can go and see him again. Not if......it's just going to hurt too much.....'

John looked away so that Sherlock didn't see the tears in his eyes. He felt guilty. Knew he was being a shit. After his conversation with Kirsty he knew he shouldn't be pressuring Sherlock any more; that the baby might not be something Sherlock could cope with. Might not be good for his mental health.

John just couldn't stand giving that grouchy little baby back.

....................

 

Sherlock walked over to the sofa where John sat and sat next to him. 

Time to tell John his decision. The man was torturing himself over this child.

'John. At your wedding, in my speech, I said I was a ridiculous man and that's probably true. No. Certainly true.

‘I also feel like an unworthy man; unworthy of my parents' and my brother's unceasing attempts to help me despite my own actions; unworthy of your love; certainly unworthy of any belief that I could ever provide any kind of a functional father role to a child. 

‘Tamara told me that I create destructive choices as alternatives to realities I cannot cope with, but also that those choices are often ultimately more painful for me and especially those around me; than taking the hard choice, or very often, accepting the fact that there is no choice. 

‘And that this might be tough on me, but that doesn't alter the choice.'

He took John's hand now, the one on his right, injured arm. 

'I want to meet the baby. Tomorrow. And we will take the baby back to Baker Street, and I will try, John. I will try, to find a context in which to live as a couple, with the baby there too and to not stray outside our relationship. 

‘I think you are very unhappy at the moment, John as am I. And I cannot bear to return to Baker Street without you. It will kill me. If that means we go back with a baby, then so be it; I am willing to try. 

‘I can't guarantee success; this is high risk. In six months time I may walk away, back to to the drugs, or escape abroad; a failure as a father and losing you as well, because I haven't come to terms with it all. 

‘But if you can take that risk and understand that I may take a long time to really fully participate and are willing to shoulder the bulk of the burden of caring for the child with Kirsty's help, then I would like to try.'

.....................

John Watson was lost for words sometimes, but he had never been struck dumb like this. If his face resembled anything, it was the face of Sherlock when he had asked him to be his best man all those months ago. No eyeballs today, but John would gladly have drunk a gallon of Eyeball tea, if it meant hearing the words Sherlock had just uttered. 

Sherlock expected some words of gratitude, perhaps a chaste kiss. 

Instead, what he witnessed, was the sight and sound of a John Hamish Watson dissolving. 

All the pain of the past months screwed up into a ball and then unravelled slowly out, the tears quiet at first, with hand rubbing eye and gradually building, until then they were huge soaking sobs of pain, rage and release. 

...............

And now through his tears John started talking, gabbling to himself about the events that had gone on, and the pain of it, and his thoughts, some of them dark, some of them so unutterably sad, all of them deeply personal and raw. It was as if the plug had been pulled out of a whole sea of repressed emotion and anger and it was all pouring out and draining away. Some of it not even about anything to do with his years with Sherlock, but about other things; his father's cruelty, his mother's fear which had made her bitter and sour, Harry's addiction....

Sherlock sat there, and listened, rubbing his own eyes absently at times and didn't try to interrupt, even when he couldn't really understand some of what John was saying; but instead gently rubbed John's back, small circles with his thumb, providing a rhythm to the cascade of feelings. Hating the distress, but recognising in a way the old pre-John Sherlock never would have been able to, that this catharsis was a good thing, a necessary thing.

And when it was over, when John was hollow and done, Sherlock also recognised that there was something like subspace-drop going on now with John, which John himself didn't recognise but Sherlock perceived; he fetched a large duvet and pillows, then grabbed some drinks and snacks from the kitchen. He did it all quickly and got John lying against him on the sofa. 

And now he did for John what Wasim had done for him, tucking John up, stroking his brow, wiping his tears away with a handkerchief and kissing him with butterfly touches in places he thought John would like and not feel threatened by.

They lay there, on the sofa, long into the night, Sherlock's limbs becoming stiff and numb but he was unwilling to disturb John even slightly, so he stayed still. 

......................

Around midnight, John woke and cried again, just briefly this time; then he clung to Sherlock who, surprising himself with his strength given his recent history, lifted John up and carried him to their bedroom.

Tamara had recommended a full seduction, but Sherlock didn't think John was in any way ready for that yet, tonight. 

So, instead, he used his long, graceful hands on his man, bringing John slowly and gently to shuddering climax, which brought more release of tension and more shedding of poisonous memories. John cried yet again and Sherlock held him through it all. 

...................

Sherlock slipped away to the shower once he saw John's face relax in sleep, to take care of his own nagging erection. He knew the last time John had interacted with another man's penis was when he was raped and knew he should hold back.

But when he got back to the bedroom, he could see John was awake now, looking confused and slightly upset. 

'I just went...'

'Why did you..?'

They both spoke at the same time. Then laughed. John looked at Sherlock's physique. His erection clearly gone now, cock soft and unthreatening. 

'You know, I could have taken care of that for you. Not a lonely wank in the bathroom.'

Sherlock grimaced.

'No. It's too soon, and you were falling asleep, and I didn't want to push you with… anything.'

'That's ok. I'm seeing Mark the therapist tomorrow afternoon to talk about stuff. In Bristol. But even without that, this, that would have been fine. Honestly.'

Sherlock snuggled up to John, spooning around him. 

'Good. But tell me if that changes, it's ok. The journey might have switchbacks, I know.'

He stroked John's cheek. 

‘And tomorrow morning, before you go to Bristol, we'll see Parthalan.'

It was the first time Sherlock had ever referred to his son by name. John held him tighter still.

....................

"Yet at times within the narrative  
There are moments of dialogue  
And these are the most important of all  
Because this is the only evidence  
That you are not alone,  
And that there are other characters within the story.

So do not lose faith in the dialogue,  
Falter as it may."

UNKNOWN AUTHOR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The setting of the (fictional) Holmes Manor is very real and very beautiful. Take the river path or towpath which runs along the River Avon / Kennet and Avon Canal from Bradford on Avon to Bath, and you will see on the other side of the river, a couple of amazing huge houses which, though in different styles, could well be a suitable neighbour of a Holmes Manor.


	20. Sherlock, and his son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps I should have labelled the tag 'Eventual Parentlock' instead of just 'Parentlock'. Anyone looking for a bit of Parentlock has probably long since lost the will to live.....:-). But it's here now!

"If you tell me  
Why the fen appears impassable,  
I will tell you how I think that I  
may get across it, if I try."

Marianne Moore

 

After breakfast the following morning, with the customary neatly trimmed poached egg on toast for John and some small squares of toast and honey (cut up by Sherlock himself, with back rubs from John while he did it, since John could only support, not do this for Sherlock, these days), Sherlock rang his mother. He spoke quietly and at length with her, almost out of earshot of John. That alone, was unheard of. 

When he returned to the breakfast table, Sherlock seemed unusually nervous and on edge.

John put down his coffee cup. 

'What did she say?'

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes shining. 

'She cried. A lot. Mummy never ever cries. I can't remember her doing it, at least, ever. Well. She did when. Lang. When she came to the hospital and they told her - what they believed had happened. But even then I think some of the tears were guilt, at not realising something was wrong.'

He paused. He didn't mention an earlier time when Mummy cried, when William was four.

'Now, well, mmmm, those tears. Sounded, just normal people’s tears - human ones?'

John smiled.

'You are human, Sherlock and so is she. She's not a robot. You just don't, haven't always allowed yourself, to BE human. When does she want us?'

'Now, if you're ready? Get it over with. But she's coming here with him, obviously, so I don't have to go to the Manor. Mycroft's not there, he's back in London, Kirsty has a half-day today and has already gone off to Bath, as the market is on in the old Green Park station sheds, so she won't be back until lunchtime.'

............

John swallowed hard. 

'And you're sure? That you want to do this? That you can?'

'Within the context of the universe being ordered as it is and it being the solution to avoiding a life without John Watson? Yes, John, I'm absolutely sure. At least that I need to try.'

It wasn't the most compelling of reassurances, but John understood Sherlock being clear about the limited nature of his commitment, and the forces that drove him to accept it. 

And it would take a long time to change that, but that time needed to start somewhere, and for them, here, and now, was where it started.

.................

Mummy Holmes, dressed in a wafting drapey summer gown, in a fetching if startling combination of lilac and lime, and comfortable-looking sandals, glided across the gravel some minutes later; a sling containing a wriggly (and as usual, cross) baby Parthalan completing the outfit. She looked radiantly happy, in stark contrast to the tear stains that still marked her face. 

She was normally very careful about her appearance and image and John realised she had rushed straight here this time, because she feared Sherlock would change his mind, panic and disappear again. 

As he himself had also, watching Sherlock quietly for signs of flight.

But that hadn't happened. Sherlock was shaking, it was true and as he and John stood on the front doorstep, John took his lover's huge hand in his own small paw, unfurling the tightly clenched long bony fingers and smoothing them out one by one, before grasping the giant hand and holding it tight, hoping to transmit everything Sherlock needed through this touch. 

Violet walked up to them and John realised she also carried a haversack of goodies with her, containing nappies, changing mat, feeds, bottles, toys, all sorts of baby stuff. Sherlock looked a bit taken aback at this, having clearly anticipated a quick Royal handshake and a relay baton-style handover, John thought, so he quickly took the luggage off Mrs Holmes without comment. Don't want to build this up into something he can't face. He could see she was thinking the same thing. No flies on Mummy.

John's actions gave a great excuse for Mummy Holmes to look to Sherlock to relieve her of her other weighty burden, a certain beetle-browed infant.

'Darling, do you actually know how to hold a baby?'

Ever the direct approach, thought John. Then realised that the question was a good one and that no, looking at the expression on his face, clearly Sherlock didn't have the faintest idea what to do with a baby and was standing there with his mouth open, catching flies, instead of taking the child that was being offered to him.

'I'll, err, show you?'

John dumped the haversack, stepped forward and took Sherlock's arms, crooking them into the right positions. Nodded at his handiwork. Sherlock looked slightly out of it, but not enough for John to panic yet. So John now gently took a snuffly Parthalan from his grandmama and placed him, equally carefully, into his father's arms. 

.............

Sherlock looked down at the little one. A small sour face looked back up at him, unblinking, curious. 

Sherlock looked as if he might just fall down, or back, or simply crumple. There was a seat in the porch and John bodily manoeuvred the peculiar pair down onto it. Then crouched down, so he was at eye-level with the baby and could see Sherlock's expression. 

What he saw in those eyes was all the pain, love, rage and sorrow that John himself had felt the previous night. He could tell Sherlock wouldn't express any of it openly, he was not John, but John could see it. 

...............

Mummy Holmes was standing back, regarding the unusual family group. She knew some of her friends would think it odd, this scene, a few even finding it frankly peculiar, but she found nothing odd in it. Holmes were programmed to embrace the odd. It was in the job description, and she married a Holmes knowing that. 

In fact, truth be told, her husband was the least Holmes like Holmes she knew, out of the barmy tribe of them, and she had a theory they the peculiarity gene had skipped a generation from Grand-mère straight down to her two boys. And, perhaps, especially to this one, her darling boy. He was so like Grand-mère, it was unreal. No wonder that mad old bat had insisted on naming him.

She cleared her throat. 

'So, Kirsty will come down at lunchtime, about one and pick him up. Parthalan will have exhausted you both by then, just with the weight of responsibility and his scowls. She'll bring some lunch down too. 

‘Sherlock said you have an appointment in Bristol this afternoon, John, an important one, so the driver will take you there. No, I won't hear of you getting the train. 

‘I'm stuck here all afternoon, once again trying to conclude the church flower-rota for the next three months, and the conflicts with it have driven me to absolute distraction. Mrs P won't do Sundays with Mrs B because she says that Mrs B deliberately brushes teasel barbs against her best mohair cardigan AND that she's being doing it ever since the cheese straws incident on the Church outing to Weston-Super-Mare last September. I'm using initials to protect the innocent, you understand? Honestly, it was MUCH easier organising the Camp David talks in my hippy days in the Seventies.'

John looked at her. Camp David? Historic Israel-Egypt accord? Violet Holmes? Good grief...

He wondered how a woman entangled in that world now seemed radiantly happy mediating over whose turn it was to snip the stamens from the lilies in the village church? 

Then looked at Sherlock, now slightly less catatonic, with his finger brushing over the baby's skin in fascinated curiosity. Could Sherlock ever be the same? Leave behind the adrenalin and destructive excitement of their life solving crimes? Retire to keep bees and love John? Could he, John do the same, one day? 

...................

He didn't realise until he looked up that Violet had slipped away and that they were now alone, together, for the first time ever, with Sherlock's baby. 

Sherlock looked down at Parthalan.

'He looks like me!' He sounded surprised. And as though this wasn't something that would be desirable.

John almost shouted or cried at him then. He wanted to grab Sherlock and shake him until his mind would rattle into place, then he would embrace his own child and everything would be absolutely fine. 

'Of course he looks like you, Sherlock! He IS you. He's your baby.'

Sherlock frowned. This was clearly not his idea of perfection in the world. His next words made John wonder if Sherlock was being loving, or trying to offload a burden.

'Our baby. Not mine, John. I decided his name alone, but Parthalan is our baby. He came about, in order that I could save you from prison and he is here now with us, because of your commitment to him. It's all about you, John, this baby's life and fate. Always you.'

...............

Sherlock was now looking at the baby again, flipping up his tiny nose slightly, peering in his nostrils and ears, and seemingly trying to outstare the baby. 

John thought the baby might get a bit weirded out by this and perhaps Sherlock had had enough for a first "go" with Parthalan..... 

'If you want, we can go inside and I can check him?'

'Check him for what?'

'Uhh, check his nappy? See if he needs changing?'

John knew he didn't, that Parthalan would have been changed just before being brought over; but it was the best excuse he could come up with to rescue the poor child. He took the baby firmly from Sherlock, who seemed only too glad to divest himself of his son.

'Ah. Oh. OK. Yes. Right? Can I watch?' 

John thought this sounded very positive, but Sherlock spoiled it almost entirely with his next statement.

'I haven't seen all of him yet. Do you think his toenails are long enough to need clipping? I could do some very interesting....'

............. 

John turned on him.

'No, Sherlock. His toenails are not long enough. And he is not here for you to experiment on! Why don't you just stick to trying to get to know him?'

He was trying not to let frustration get the better of him.

'Know him? Look at him, John. There isn't anything to know at the moment, apart from mess and smell. And anyway. He's too small. I think he should be bigger. Babies are bigger than him. I've seen them. They're all bigger, John. Maybe he's not normal? Is there something wrong with him?'

John was about to berate him for this statement too, telling him that the babies he'd seen out and about were older than his son was, when Sherlock frowned and peered at Parthalan.

'Mm. And babies make noise. Does he not make any then? Noise? John? I thought babies cried?'

This John could cope with better. Factual, medical paediatric stuff. And Sherlock was right, they did normally cry.

'Usually. Not always. Occasionally it takes some time to kick in. It's usually triggered once the baby has got used to something they like and you take it away from them, or them away from it. Babies don't know it, or they, are actually coming back; they don't have object permanence understanding. So they can get upset by that.'

'So he can hear and everything? Everything works?'

'So far as one can tell with a two week old baby, yes, he reacts in all the right, normal ways to external stimuli. He just hasn't chosen to cry yet. Make the most of it, you'll know about it when he does.'

'Right. That's good.' 

Sherlock didn't look sure. Or especially comfortable, suddenly. More worried. 

His interest and balanced equilibrium hadn't lasted long and he was distracted now, but kept shooting worried glances at John. John didn't know what had changed, what memory or emotion or fear had eaten its way into his lover's brain, but he felt that old prickle of unease creep up his spine, a cold fear. 

They were in the house now. John checked but sure enough, Parthalan didn't need changing, so he laid the baby down on the thick woolly rug in front of the fire in the sitting room and played with him. 

Sherlock disappeared: one minute there, the next, just absent. Some things never changed....John thought he might have gone to the loo, but he didn't reappear.....

...............

It was about an hour later before John decided he really should go and find what Sherlock was up to, so he scooped up the baby and ambled his way around the house, finding no sign of Sherlock. 

He eventually located him outside, on the terrace, smoking what looked like the latest in a long line of cigarettes, judging from the ashtray of butts. Not his usual brand, either, these were strong and pungent, and John had no idea where they had come from. They looked like a smuggled batch, there were no British health warnings on them and no seals showing duty had been paid. They stank, wherever he'd got them from.

John resisted the temptation to shout, because of the baby, but also because he could see Sherlock's hands shaking violently again. His eyes could never be described as dark, but they were darker than normal now, much more intense. 

John sat down next to him, the baby against his chest in the sling and sighed. 

'You're struggling.'

It was a statement, not a question. You could see it writ large all over Sherlock's haggard miserable face.

'You want to do this, for me. Because you know how much it means to me and because you know that, your love aside, I don't have a lot to look forward to because of my arm. But you don't know if you can go through with it, whether you can tolerate a child, even if that means keeping us together. You're wondering if you made a mistake, saying that you would try it?

‘Stop me if I'm off track with any of this, Sherlock.'

Sherlock was looking at the ground, his lips clamped together. He looked pale and flushed and utterly miserable.

'You're not off track.'

He whispered the words. He looked like a baby seal with a hunter's club raised above it.

John sat back against the back of the seat. Stroked Parthalan's hair. Played with his tiny perfect fingers. Much longer than Rebecca's had been. He would have the hands of his father, then, but perhaps narrower. A pianist's hands, or a flautist, or a dancer's. 

John desperately wanted to be there. To know what he would become and help him achieve it. And it was slipping from his grasp again, just like it had with Rebecca, except this time, there was nobody to blame, not any more, not in his mind.

He looked into Sherlock's pained eyes, the face waiting to be condemned and rejected, just like John had threatened to do. To be told that John was not going back to Baker Street with him, not without Parthalan. That John could not do it, and that Sherlock would be alone again.

But John had learned things about Sherlock now, still more horrors about his childhood and he knew that even though he didn't think he, John, was a good man, he couldn't both know those things, and also hold Sherlock responsible for his inability to cope with this situation, which was not, which was never, of his own making. 

................

'You know, I would have been angry. Really mad. Instead of just sad. If it wasn't for Kirsty.'

Sherlock made a slight movement.

'Kirsty?'

'Yeah. We talked. About the time after...Lang, when you were brought back here, when you had to come back here after all the suicide attempts and the stays in the clinics. Before you went to Eton. About......how it was, for you here. The ways you tried to survive, to cope, having to live on here, impossibly, in the place you were abused. 

‘I don't know, Sherlock, I really honestly don't, if as more details emerge, as they have already over the months and years, whether the power of new revelations of exactly how much you suffered will ever lose their power to shock me, to eat me out down to my guts, but I suspect they probably won't. 

‘And I feel like that and I didn't personally go through one single solitary day of what you went through.

‘It made me realise, I suppose, at first only in the back of my mind, because I hoped, God, I hoped, that it would be OK. But no, it made me realise finally, now, that it might not be ok. And that what's being asked of you, with this baby, might actually be really harmful to you. That you might not cope. And that for someone who has suffered serious breakdowns before, that's not something to take a risk with lightly. 

‘That in the end, if that was the case, then whatever we might think about Parthalan's place being with you, and with me, that it's possible that it could be detrimental to you both.

‘And that if that's the case, if you aren't ready, then even if you might be ready one day and this is just too soon, then that's still "not ready". And that for me to push you to do it, would mean that I didn't ever really love you at all? 

‘You don't owe me a child, Sherlock. I realise that now. This wasn't your choice. None of the whole stupid arrogant entitled selfish scheme and the fact that you have a baby as a result of it doesn't mean you owe it to me to have him live with us and for you to transform into Superdad. This isn't a soap opera, it's real fucking life.

‘You don't owe me anything. Nothing. I got injured and lost my medical career a week ago, doing something I wanted to do. I lost what I thought was my daughter to an unfaithful wife.I lost my Army career to an enemy bullet. None of that was your doing.

‘If I lose the chance to act as a father to this child, it will be Jonathon Lang who has stolen that chance from me, just like he stole your childhood and your happiness and your sense of self-worth from you. 

‘Not you. Not you, Sherlock. Not your fault.

‘I love this little man already, you know that. But if I have to, I will love him as an uncle. Your parents, or even Mycroft will bring him up. And we will go back to Baker Street, your experiments, the cases, and the nursery can be a dressing room. 

‘And I will not resent you for it, Sherlock. I promise you that. All you ever promised me was yourself, as you are. You've kept that promise. I have no place threatening you with removing myself unless you jump through artificial hoops I create. 

‘I will stay with you, Sherlock, Parthalan or no Parthalan. You're not going to lose me. '

..................

He didn't wait for a response. John reached across and removed Sherlock's cigarette, by now burned down to the filter and crushed it, into the ashtray.

Then he took hold of Sherlock's hand and held it tightly, so tightly. They sat there, Sherlock's baby now sleeping, once again with an uncertain future; the two middle-aged men looking out across the perfectly striped green lawn, which spoke to John of proper cylinder mowers remaining de rigeur at the Manor estate. 

Everything proper and how it should be, except the way they treated their own son, he thought bitterly.

He still didn't ask Sherlock to respond to what he'd said and Sherlock remained silent. He just wanted to say it, to put it out there for Sherlock to absorb. Hopefully, to remove the desperate pressure from his mind. 

He didn't even complain about the cigarette, when Sherlock finally, wordlessly, turned and held his face and kissed him gently on the lips, a kiss that tasted sour from the tobacco, but sweet from the closeness that John felt was, at last, growing back between them.

................

 

Kirsty returned as promised at one o'clock and took Parthalan back to the Manor house. As she picked him up from his place on the blanket next to Sherlock, who was reading and occasionally darting concerned and disapproving glances at the tiny interloper, Parthalan absolutely screamed his angry little head off.......the sound made all three of them jump.

Kirsty looked amazed. John smiled broadly; both of their smiles faded when they glanced at Sherlock, who now looked completely stricken at the noise and practically ran inside the house, leaving John and the baby with Kirsty. Kirsty looked delighted at the din, allaying as it did any fears about Parthalan's development, but her gaze looked worried as she stared at the disappearing figure. She looked at John questioningly.

'Sorry about that', John said. 'It went well at first, but I think he's regretting making me promises that he's now not sure he can keep. I don't know what horrible stuff this is all kicking up for him.'

John was silently hugely grateful to Mycroft now, for finding the one nanny in the world who knew all about Sherlock's past and who he could work with and speak freely with about it.

'Could you tell Violet? Not that it's all off, just that he's finding it hard? And that I think we need to take a break, so we might go off for a few days mid-week, to give him some space away from here. I know time is limited but I think it might help.'

Kirsty nodded. Her only impetus in wanting a decision was to know where she would be living, Bath or Baker Street. And she knew she'd get that decision soon, as the court hearing was less than two weeks away. She left, taking the small wailing cause of all this angst with her and John walked with her to the door of the Manor, carrying the baby pack.

Then, he returned to the Dower House down the winding gravel paths, frowning and deep in thought.

.....................

Sherlock said little about the drama, beyond a quiet confirmation to John that yes, he was struggling with the concept of taking Parthalan home with them. 

He retreated to his Mind Palace, lying pale and hollow on the sofa. John left a cup of tea next to him as a symbol of his continued support, a support not dependent on the outcomes of decisions. It seemed the British thing to do.

It was soon time for John to leave for his appointment with Mark, his therapist. Hearing the car draw up outside, Sherlock surprisingly roused himself from his silent statue-like state, came and took John's coat from the stand in the hallway, placing it over the smaller man's shoulders and smoothing down the arms, since John couldn't put his bad arm through the sleeve. John turned to him and with his good arm, hooked Sherlock's face down to him, noticing how sad he looked.

He'd never loved him more than he did at that moment.

'It doesn't matter', he whispered fiercely. 'It doesn't matter if you can't do it. You were right all along. You don't owe them anything, except to try to be happy. God knows, you deserve that.'

And pressing a small soft kiss to Sherlock's forehead, he stepped away and wound a grey wool scarf around his neck. 

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes wide and pale and haunting. 

'Will you be okay? With the session with Mark, I mean. I know the other, the baby, isn't ok.'

'Sherlock, I will be okay with both. But especially, especially, with the other. 

‘Listen to what I just said. Do what will make you happiest. Because that's what will make me happy too. You aren't my passport to a baby, Sherlock, you're the only man I've ever loved. Ever will love. I'm not living my life vicariously through children, though children are a wonderful blessing, I'm living it here and now and in the future, with you. 

‘You know, I think we should get away. Not necessarily far, I just mean away from all the pressure, and away from this place. Holmes Manor is never going to be restorative for you. There's a week and a half until the court hearing about residence. Let's stay here a couple more days, seeing Parthalan if you'd like to, or not, and then head off for a long weekend. We can still be back well before the court date.'

Sherlock frowned. 

'Where were you thinking of going?'

'Actually, London. Not 221B. I think we both need thoroughly spoiling. As your doctor, I prescribe a course of luxury hotel, massive bubble baths and a fucking shedload of sex.'

It was the first time John had broached the subject of proper intimacy since his rape and subsequent repatriation to the hospital in the UK. Sherlock wasn't quite sure how seriously John meant his enticing if plainly-spoken offer, but he wasn't about to refuse it.

He looked seriously happy about the whole idea, in fact. He became officious.

‘You sometimes do have very good ideas, John. You go off to Bristol, I will compare thread-counts of the bedsheets in all five-star London hotels. By the time you return, I shall have it all arranged. You don't need to worry about a thing.'

.................

John felt very satisfied as he sat back in the luxurious interior of the Holmes limousine. He'd managed to snap Sherlock out of torturing himself with guilt about the choice he had to make, and he really did feel that being here at the Manor, was not conducive in any way, to Sherlock being able to think clearly. 

Anyway, with his arm as it was, a few days of being waited on hand and foot was unbearably appealing. Luxury hotels were used to weird requests and two men who now both required food to be served in bite-sized pieces wouldn't make them blink twice. They would have seen much, much weirder.

..................

John spent over three hours with Mark, his therapist, that afternoon. Perhaps uniquely, Mark's background in the Special Services meant that John was able to be a little more frank about some (though not all) of the details of the operations he'd been undertaking and of the last doomed mission, his kidnap and captivity. 

He only started to stumble when it came to describing his last hours as a hostage and the nocturnal sexual assault. Mark was a guy, John didn't know him that well, so it was very painful to relive those events, now that they had come back with such unwelcome clarity into his memory. 

Mark sat and listened as John described those events and the pattern of life since; especially about the uncertainty, over whether the father of a baby with all the physical and financial resources one could wish for, might feel able, or perhaps unable, to take care of his own baby. Talking about that necessarily involved talking about some of Sherlock's history, and John hoped Sherlock would forgive him for this. 

He also talked about his arm injury, about his new career being ruined by his desire to serve militarily and as a medic, just like his old career had been. About his anger and the things it had led him to do. The bad things. The one really bad one. About his worries about his relationship with Sherlock; his abilities to handle the very particular needs and issues that his lover presented him with, without harm coming to one or both of them. 

................

Mark listened patiently, rarely interrupting, occasionally checking for clarification. He did not write down details of John's attack. He understood about Mycroft.

At the end of John's faltering narrative, Mark looked at him thoughtfully. 

'From what you have said, I can tell, John, that you are absolutely desperate for this child to be part of your life?'

John looked away, tears filling his eyes. He brushed his arm across, roughly.

'Yeah. Yeah, I am.'

He was admitting it out loud now.

'But you are willing to support Sherlock if he chooses...'

He was interrupted.

'It’s not choosing, it's a question of what is possible for him to bear, to deal with. Not choosing.'

'Okay, so you are willing to support him whatever decision he feels he needs to come to, even if that's not taking on his baby.'

'Yeah. I didn't think that at first, not at all, but then I was reminded by someone who knew him as a child, when everything happened to him, just how terrible his experiences were. Why someone who went through that might genuinely not feel capable, ever, of being a major figure in a child's life themselves. 

‘Not because they don't trust themselves with children, so much, but because they feel there's a hollow inside them, maybe they don't feel mature enough, their own development being interrupted and twisted, maybe they don't feel they have anything to offer a child. 

‘Maybe they just feel that they would worry so much about a child, so terrified for them, that they would stop the child doing the things that kids should do.'

..............

Mark smiled. 

'True, John. Although Sherlock would have you there to fulfil many of these roles. How do you feel, that he might not think that's enough? Does that upset you?'

John chewed his lip. 

'I probably did feel upset about that. But not any more. It isn't about me and what I can offer, not really. I realise that now. There's a bottom line of skills and emotions that Sherlock himself feels he needs to be able to offer. Without them: well, he wants the best for his child, and just because I can do that stuff, doesn't take away from him thinking he will undermine it. So if he thinks he really is inadequate, he'd rather the child was nowhere near him. Not having expectations of him.'

'And what do you think he will decide, John? It's a testament to your love for him that you are supporting him regardless.'

'I........I don't know what he's going to do?'

John rubbed his face with his hands. 

They talked on for a long time, discussing possible techniques for anger control, ways of managing conflict and avoiding escalation. 

Some areas they didn't really touch on, they were for another day, but simply to have spoken to an outsider whose confidence he could trust, in itself made John feel better. 

It was only on the way back to the Manor that he resumed his pondering of Sherlock's state of mind, which made him quiet and pensive once more.

He'd rarely felt so apprehensive.


	21. Surprises for John, and a very welcome break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luxury hotel. Weeks of abstaining. I wonder what happens in this chapter.  
> Very smooch. So smut.

On return to the Dower House he found Sherlock lively and animated. 

The five star hotel was booked, overlooking Hyde Park. Very expensive, very ostentatious and luxurious and very, very much all going on British Government expenses, in the shape of the jet black credit card of one "M Holmes, Esq. GCMG".

Forget duck houses on MP's expenses, this was going to be oodles of champagne and Astroglide for Mycroft to justify to his fusty bosses. That was, if he had any bosses, other than Queenie herself. Probably Prince Philip could be relied upon to find humour in a large invoice for lube.......

Booked from two days time, for three nights. John looked at the booking details.

'What does GCMG stand for? I assume it's some gong or title, like OBE?'

Sherlock snorted. 

‘Yes, or probably Sanskrit for "Dame" in Mycroft's case. It stands for something. I'm afraid I deleted what the proper wording is, on the grounds of complete risibility; there's a series of them, in rising seniority.

‘They're civil service gongs. I know the slang though: KCMG is known as "Keep Calling Me God". This one, GCMG is the top of the gong tree, and is known as "God Calls Me God".

John sniggered. 

'Its all ridiculous, isn't it?'

Sherlock looked at him a little strangely. 

'Yes, I suppose so, these ones anyway. Not the military side or the bravery awards so much. Anyway, you can tell him yourself; he's down this evening, just for the night. Apparently he wants to talk to you, alone, though I've no idea why. 

[Tiny lie, there, Sherlock. You have a sniff of why.......you're Sherlock Holmes, after all. As clever as it gets.......But you don't know the exact specifics, so you can play wide-eyed innocent.]

.....................

Mycroft arrived looking hot and tired, but impeccably besuited naturally, around six o'clock that evening. Apparently, events in several of the former Soviet republics were causing considerable unnecessary headaches and he might have to go out there personally. Mycroft considered it lamentable that the most intractable conflicts, were never in the places with the most agreeable cuisine for his specific palate and waistline requirements.

Dinner was delivered from the Manor down to the Dower House via lawn-mower taxi and the Holmes clan, plus John, all squashed in around the big table. 

John could no longer cut up Sherlock's food for him and he himself struggled with cutting his own food, but this had been solved by the choice of curry as the meal by Sherlock's parents.The meat was already cut into small pieces and spoons and forks were used. It wasn't too spicy, either, given Sherlock and John's still recovering bodies, just nicely warming.

Clever, John thought; the curry with the ready-prepared bite sized pieces of meat. The essence of true upper class British manners were, he knew by now, not at all as people thought, about catching out others with social rules they wouldn't be familiar with, toilet versus lavatory and all that rubbish; rather it was the opposite; it was about the effortless "putting at ease" of any guest, no matter what their background or station in life. Mr Holmes was especially good at this, in John's view. 

.............. 

After dinner, they retired to the sitting room, where Sherlock and his mother started playing overly-competitive chess, whilst Sherlock's father spoke about small matters with John and Mycroft. They drank strong dark coffee. John troughed a few Bendick's mints. Life seemed agreeable.

After about half an hour of this pleasant interlude, while Mr Holmes was away from the room, putting the coffee cups in the dishwasher, Mycroft suddenly clicked off his phone and asked John to join him in the study for a moment. Sherlock noted the moment, as did the ever sharp Mummy Holmes, but there was only a moment's hesitation in their chess moves. Their heads did not rise from apparent rapt contemplation of the chessboard.

..............

John felt very nervous. Had Mycroft found out about his sexual assault on Sherlock? Surely not, or Sherlock would not be looking so unconcerned, almost smug? But what else could it be about? He followed Mycroft obediently, but with his his heart in his boots. 

............

Mycroft showed John into the room ahead of him, then closed the door of the study firmly, turning to face John. Then he smiled, strangely openly for him. John didn't know if that frightened him even more than the narrow-eyed suspicion he was more used to? 

Mycroft was still smiling as he handed John an envelope. John hadn't had a good experience with envelopes from Mycroft in the past, but this one was small and slim and heavy paper and looked extremely official, and it had a real red wax seal. He looked at the seal first. Lots of lions and a harp. Shield supported by a lion and a unicorn. "Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense". Even John knew that meant, "Evil to him who evil thinks". And John also knew that this was the Sovereign's coat of arms.He turned the envelope over. Address at top right. "Buckingham Palace, SW1". 

OK. So yes, this was definitely HM the Q all right. John wondered if this was about the ashtray, but then technically it had been Sherlock who had actually stolen it.....It was still on the mantelpiece at 221B, having taken the place of the vile Jonathon skull. He wasn't going to dob Sherlock in for it, unless it emerged he was going to be sent to the Tower, or getting a second ASBO. Then he might just....

....His thoughts were interrupted by Mycroft.

'Aren't you going to open it?' asked Mycroft, gently.

'I, uh, yeah, I guess, yeah.'

He made a mess of opening it with only one good arm and Mycroft observed his struggle, silently handing him a letter opener. He managed, with its help, to slit open the rest of the envelope without destroying the contents or stabbing his remaining fully functioning limb.

..............

Inside the envelope, was a crisply typed concise letter, informing John that he had been recommended for a New Year's Honour, for his two tours of regular military service but mainly for his military and medical humanitarian service on a total of twenty three separate missions, in addition to being cited for bravery, through his frontline role in taking down a major international terrorist organisation led by Moriarty and Moran. 

John, struck dumb, read on.....blah blah....waffle waffle......."Knight Commander of the British Empire".....

What. What the.....

...............

He looked up at Mycroft.

'What the bloody fuck? Is this? A Knighthood? Fuck. Why isn't it Sherlock getting this? Why am I standing here, and not him?'

Mycroft smiled at him distantly. 

‘It's different, John. For us, for any of us, the Holmes. We specialise in behind-the-scenes direction of events, we always have done, other than the odd historical blip. Sherlock's by far the most publicly high-profile member of the family for generations and it's only been tolerated because of what happened to him. 

'Ordinarily we shun the limelight and family members toe that line to a man. Sherlock understands that, he knows it. He knows he's the exception. But even he will never be offered any kind of official recognition for any of his....dragon slaying. And besides, you forget, which you really should not, that my brother has done many brave deeds; but he neither was a member of the Moran hit squad, nor did he take part in any of the Six missions, the very, very brave Six missions, John. 

‘And, whilst I don't wish to be blunt, my brother does not have the enforced cessation of his activities in the way that your injuries, John, acquired through your bravery, have given you.’ 

.............

John Watson looked down at the paper and thought of his mother. He would like to send her this and maybe then she would be proud of her son, instead of pretending he was married to a toothy tanned ex-cheerleader in Boulder, Colorado, which was apparently the latest story she was hawking around her neighbourhood, according to Harry. 

That despite the fact half her neighbours had read in "OK" magazine about his and Sherlock's relationship, complete with paparazzi shot of the two of them snogging on a street corner. Worse, in that magazine photo, the street was steep and John had taken advantage of the unusual height equality, with Sherlock’s arms pinned above his own head and a very muscly John-thigh inserted between Sherlock's legs as they kissed.......It left very little to the imagination and she, his mother, was making a fool of herself with her prejudice. 

But somehow, like a small dog licking obsessively at a sore patch of skin and making the wound worse, John Watson still wanted his mother to be proud of him. As he was and who he was. It was a poor reason for accepting an honour, he knew. And wondered if part of his nomination was Mycroft's doing, assuaging in some way his guilt at his tardy action to save the soldier-doctor, and his selfishness in the baby project?

.................

But John, watched by Mycroft, who had sat down and feigned perusal of his phone as his brother's lover considered his response, overlooked that. He had seen first-hand the positive role of medals and gongs, and the comfort they mostly gave other soldiers forced from the battlefield by injury. Or their families, for the deceased. Not all, but most.

And wasn't that him, now? Just like them? Forced to take pride in the symbolic collective thanks for his painful sacrifice and thanks, on behalf of his colleagues and comrades who did not come home? 

He thought of the victims of the chopper crash and of his army friends, the ones who only got to came back in a coffin draped in a Union flag, in the back of a lumbering transport plane to RAF Brize Norton and the crowd-lined streets of Wootton Bassett. The latter town now with "Royal" prefixed to its name for all time, to honour the townsfolk who week in and month out, stopped what they were doing and bowed their heads and clapped each and every fallen soldier passing. Even when the convoys of hearses seemed never-ceasing.

And then, extraordinarily, John Hamish Watson straightened up and actually saluted Mycroft Holmes, in Mycroft's capacity as the representative of the Sovereign. Then told him he would be humbled to accept the honour being bestowed upon him.

..................

Sherlock hadn't known, John was certain, but he could tell he'd guessed a lot of it. 

As John sat back down in the sitting room, clutching the envelope with its momentous contents, Sherlock passed him a folded note written on a napkin. He opened it. It read:

"So very, very proud of you, John. Or should I say, Captain Watson. Or whatever your new title is now. I struggle to keep up......No one deserves this more than you. If you will permit me to kneel and lick your boots tonight, I would be honoured. SH"

John's face went bright red, and he quickly stuffed the note into his pocket, but nodded slightly. Noticed by every single other person in the room. Except perhaps for Sherlock, who was leaning back looking smug and satisfied, though John wasn't sure if that was down to the note, or the fact that, for once, he'd just beaten his mother fair and square at chess. 

Once the letter had been passed around, Mr Holmes looking as proud as if John was his own son and hugging him until John had to point out his shoulder bullet wound was complaining, toasts had been made to John's health, the elder Holmes' noticed the two recently hospitalised men were now both looking tired. They and Mycroft rose, said their goodnights and left to walk back up to the Manor.

Not a single word had been said about Parthalan all evening. He was the very tiny, baby elephant not in the room.

...............

After they had all gone, and the remnants of the clearing-up were done, Sherlock came up behind John, as he stood at the sink. John was getting better at not flinching at such approaches and knew Sherlock was trying to get him used to them again. 

It was OK this time; maybe the first time that had been really OK. John turned and found himself embraced with an enveloping cocoon of octopus-armed Sherlock. 

'Tell me what you want, John. Tell me what you need.'

John buried his head in the bony chest. The breathing better now in there, clearer. The pneumonia was pretty much gone. Ever the doctor.....He got his thoughts back to the matter in question.

'I want to have you tonight and I want to show you how much I love you.'

Sherlock grinned widely. That smile was devastating.

'Lead on, then, John. Captain. Sir.......'

..............

John could sense Sherlock's nervousness and he shared it. They'd barely been active lovers since hospital, save for Sherlock's single skilful hand job and both of them knew this would be a test for John. Sherlock was just eternally grateful that the Gods had seen fit to make John prefer to top and him adore to bottom. The other way round and it could have been months before they reached this stage. 

They were in the bedroom now, the decor slightly gloomy Gothic with a large brass bed. Brass beds weren't great for Sherlock generally, but this one differed enough to the one in the ground floor guest room at the Manor. It was OK. He could do this.

Both of them were in the mood tonight for some taking of roles. Sherlock, as he had promised, dropped to his knees the moment he got near the bed and kissed the polished leather of John's shoes as he had requested in his earlier note. Eyes down, hands hanging by his side. John smiled down at him and placed his hand on Sherlock's head. 

'Good lad. Now undress me.'

Sherlock smiled. 

'Yes sir!'

John felt happier that at any time since the helicopter hit the ground and his future with it.

...........

Sherlock took his time removing John's clothing, carefully running his slender hands over each garment, rubbing it between his long fingers, even sniffing at each item, (which John thought was perhaps taking things a little far); but he really didn't mind because those beautiful long fingers were touching him as they removed his clothes so methodically. 

Almost clinical, almost, and yet just a slight touch here and there, which was frankly more than enough at this moment to drive John absolutely crazy. As Sherlock finally reached the waistline of John's trousers, it was clear that special care would need to be taken pulling down the zip, such was the degree of tenting in the local geographic area.....

Care was duly taken and trousers were removed and socks (and yes, he did sniff those too...) and then Sherlock, still fully dressed himself, pulled down John's underpants much more smartly, and John's cock sprang free, fully hard already and then Sherlock actually growled, which turned John on in ways he didn't fully understand or feel a need to. Pre-come glistened at the tip. Sherlock instinctively went to lick it, which amazed John, but it was John's turn to growl, a warning this time and Sherlock stopped immediately and sank back down on his knees.

'I told you to undress me, not to take a lick of whatever take your fancy along the way, laddie. This isn't a sweetie shop. Stop sampling the merchandise.' (Small snigger from Sherlock, wiped away by icy glare from John). 

'Self control. Very important in a soldier. I'm afraid you WILL need to be punished for your insubordination and lack of discipline.'

With that, John produced from a corner of his suitcase, some cuffs and ropes and the beloved riding crop. 

..............

Sherlock now made as if to get himself undressed, scrambling to divest his clothes. 

'Stop. STOP. You're doing it again. Stop thinking. Just follow my orders. Nothing else. Do you understand, lad?'

'Yes sir. Sorry, sir.'

'Get on the bed. On your front.'

Sherlock scrambled to comply. An image of a deer fawn, all legs and no coordination. The man was keen....

John walked over to the bed and put his face next to Sherlock's ear. 

I am going to tie you up, now, laddie, and I am going to handcuff you to this bed. Then I am going to pull down your trousers and thrash you for your arrogance. Then I am going to make you ready for me; then, then, my lad, then, I am going to rubber up because of, well, not just what happened to me, but you, you've been a dirty boy again, drugs this time, so no bareback for you for six months as punishment. 

'Then I'm going to fuck you, Sherlock, good and hard and proper. Do you understand? Is that acceptable to you, Private Holmes?'

Sherlock smirked. The cat who not only got the cream, but just inherited a dairy....

'Yes sir, and yes, very much indeed, thank-you sir.'

Sherlock was lying on his front and having to resist the temptation to squirm, because he knew that would be counted as insubordination too. He had just got harder and harder as John had spoken and bringing out the equipment had just made it worse, or better, depending on how you looked at it. Worse and better. That was what he craved. He groaned audibly with the sweet, sweet torture of it all.

The handcuffs went on and then the ropes. Sherlock was fighting the urge to just wriggle a little tiny delicious bit and the denial was painful to the point of exquisite discomfort. John could sense it, and was enjoying the spectacle. He knew what he was doing to Sherlock, and that made it all the more erotic for them both. John had the whip in his hand now and Sherlock shivered. He knew John wouldn't be doing a full session, this was just as an aperitif to penetration and John needed to build confidence in his own self-control again, too; but even the prospect of a taste of it made Sherlock's mouth water and his mind settle into a pleasing buzz.

Ten blows, ten breathless counts, and ten "thank-you, Sir"s later, John placed the whip back in its case. He was frankly relieved that he'd completed that part without incident and that Sherlock was clearly enjoying the experience so completely.

..................

And now. Now. Finally, at long last, John's fingers did their skilful work (oh the utter blissful joy of being fucked by a doctor...) and brought Sherlock to a state of slick hungry, shameless openness and now, now, the long weeks of waiting were over and John quickly rolled on a condom. 

And the guttural groan John gave, as he half slid, half shoved his way into Sherlock's arse was a sound that Sherlock instantly mentally recorded and filed away in the bedroom of his Mind Palace. The sound was a combination of lust, relief, base intent and utter triumph and it echoed around the stone walls of the high-ceilinged room and back, like an orchestral crescendo into their ears. 

Sherlock, whose sexual activities had been limited for the past weeks to a single wank after he gave John the hand-job the other night, was really never going to last long and he was greedy and impatient. John's slow careful strokes, so in contrast to the last time he had fucked Sherlock, were caring and sweet, but they weren't really what Sherlock wanted tonight. So he turned his head so he could see John's face fully, and told him loudly that what he really wanted him to do now, if he didn't mind, Sir, was for Sir to fuck him properly, Sir. 

Now, Sir.

And Sherlock was duly fucked very properly and very very righteously by John whose piston-like speed of thrusting towards the end was as much driven by his casted arm starting to give him issues, as it was the foul-mouthed bullying by an alabaster vision of a lippy junior-rank soldier beneath him.

...............

John was close to coming now, but he wanted Sherlock to do so first. So he raised himself up, still deeply embedded in Sherlock's arse, so he could balance without using his arms, and then reached round with his good arm and gave Sherlock's aching prick some good hard soldierly pulls and strokes and lowered his head and bit really, really hard on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock yelped, gasped and came just absolutely everywhere. John's hand was smothered in it. He thought it might be good for the skin, as an alternative to hand-cream?

The resulting internal muscle-clamping down on John's cock, from Sherlock's climax, was way more than enough to send John straight over the edge then, too and he roughly pulled a pale and exquisite bony hip towards him and frantically pumped the essence of himself into the condom, inside Sherlock, wishing this moment of pure pleasure could go on and on forever. That they could just hide from the world and screw all day and all night.

...............

And they stayed like that. Neither attempted to move, other than John withdrawing and swiftly removing the used condom. Once that was done, he curled himself against Sherlock's long thin back. 

He frowned. Sherlock couldn't see him frown. But he could hear it in his voice.

'You need to eat more. Your backbone is way too prominent.'

'How can I eat more? My food preparer has gone on strike, with some risible excise about having a 'slightly bad arm'.

Sherlock "heard" the wry smile.

'Then we need to be back in Baker Street, where all those gadgets Mycroft bought are. If I get them fixed to the counter, they will help. But you will eat more. You're like a fucking stegosaurus. It's not acceptable in a regiment. I'll have you drummed out of the army.'

'Don't do that Sir John, I'm a poof, they'll put me in the glasshouse in Colchester for buggery of a senior officer.'

John rolled over onto his back. 

'I'm ignoring that before you request a transfer. But I can't believe that, you know? Sir John? It just sounds ridiculous. It doesn't even sound right with my name being so plain. "Sir John Watson".

'Maybe you'll get used to it? It's bound to sound odd at first? I like it, anyway?'

'Do you?'

'Mmmmmm. Oh yes.'

And Sherlock buried his head in John's armpit and snuffled around until John complained that he was being tickled, and they should go to sleep. He only just heard, as he dropped off, Sherlock's theatrical whisper;

'Now I can call you Sir all the time, Sir John, even in public...'

And John replied in a drowsy voice:

'Not entirely sure that's entirely wise, Sherlock, given its effect on you....'

'Mmm. Good point. Night, John...'

.....................

They did have Parthalan back over to the Dower House the following two mornings before they left for London. John wasn't sure how Sherlock came to agree to it, but he did. Maybe it was the upcoming break in London. He didn't intend to question it, anyway.

Mrs Holmes brought the baby once, casting worried and questioning looks at Sherlock, which he openly ignored. Kirsty brought him the second morning. Sherlock seemed to cope better than on that first disastrous morning visit, John thought. Maybe it's because he knows he's getting away from here soon? For the first time he wondered whether part of Sherlock's mental anguish about the child, was simply due to him being here, so close to the Manor and the cause of all his issues. Child plus Manor equals brain melt? 

That being so, it was a very good thing that they were going soon.

.................

Parthalan himself seemed unmoved by all the to-ing and fro-ing. He wasn't especially prone to crying or grizzling and seemed unaffected by being a small bundled parcel, passed from granny-to-nanny-to-uncle-to-father-to-other-father. Sherlock thought Parthalan looked cross, though. Cross about being small, and helpless and dependent on others. He told his mother this, but she just laughed and said he had been much the same and Mycroft too. Haughty little Lord Fauntleroys.....

Sherlock still took little part in interacting with the baby. Instead, he would sit and read the paper, or a fearfully dull-looking fusty book, while John revelled in the chance to drink in the small demanding presence, and to simply touch the incredible fact of his existence with small kisses and smiles.

Occasionally, though, John would look up, just for a glance and catch Sherlock watching. Not often, but enough so that he knew it wasn't just a momentary glance. Sherlock, when John saw this, looked away quickly, but before he did, John saw what was written on his face. 

It said 'How do I decide, if I can make this sacrifice for John?'

................

They left for London the following day. They couldn't get away fast enough, frankly, back to the chaos of the city, which for them represented a calm embrace. The weather had turned, and they were glad to get into the hotel when they arrived. 

When they got to their room, it turned out to be a suite; Sherlock had only booked a room (though that was still the best part of 400 nicker a night), but clearly Mycroft -magic had been at work again, as there was a small note on the side table which Sherlock read out loud, a small smile quirking at the corner of his mouth.

\---------

"I did not think it appropriate that a Knight of the Realm-elect, should be staying in anything less than this. Enjoy your stay.

P.S. This suite was chosen as it is used by foreign dignitaries. The bullet and blast proof walls are useful generally, but as a side benefit provide....excellent sound insulation.....

M.H."

\---------

John sank down on the massive, luxurious bed. He made snow angel shapes on the silk bedspread. 

'Your brother is, at last, revealing some significant redeeming qualities. This. Is. Bloody. Heaven.'

Sherlock, who was standing gazing around, went over to the window, pushing the heavy curtains aside, gazing out over the Park. He agreed with John. His whole demeanour had lifted visibly, as soon as they had pulled away from the Manor. 

He looked round and grinned. 

'Hungry, John?'

'Starving.'

'Do you want to get the menu? I think it's on the console table?

John was looking at him with a piercing gaze.

'No that's OK, thanks, Sherlock. Everything I want to eat, is right here in this room I think, and I'm looking at it.'

John advanced menacingly towards Sherlock, using his good arm to push Sherlock back onto the bed. 

'Oh....hmm.....well then......'

The open room service menu was squashed beneath Sherlock's buttocks. It never looked quite the same the rest of their stay as it wouldn't stand upright any more and they couldn't get the unfortunate stains out of the navy blue watered silk lining.......

...............

Some hours later, the two men were sitting up in bed, room-service trays empty of the lobster salad and chips they'd just demolished, and several bottles which had once contained champagne, rolled under the bed. They'd been "at" the mini bar too, in a big way, and were really pretty drunk on alcohol as well as on love.

Two used condoms hung decorously over the edge of the small, dainty waste paper basket, like porno medals on a uniform. John knew he'd need to be kinder to the housekeeping, than that slutty effort, but it could wait for now. Everything could wait. For now, he had a sleepy erstwhile consulting detective next to him and he longed for the day when his cast was off and he had two arms to, in some fashion anyway, embrace the beautiful body next to him. 

..............

There had been times, in fact many times, in the past weeks when John saw no hope of a future life with Sherlock. He still really wasn't sure what that life looked like. But, with his own dropping of his insistence on Parthalan living with them, he knew that they did, at least, have a future together.

Sherlock looked more relaxed in repose here than he had for months. We should have done this a long time ago, John thought. Taken holidays. Even just short ones. 

He would have moaned and complained, but that doesn't mean he didn't need the break, all the same. 

...........

They slept for hours and hours, most of the rest of that day and all through the night. Sherlock was outraged and shocked when he woke, unable to believe he'd just done that, until John pointed out that he was still recovering from the pneumonia and the drugs issues and his body knew it needed the sleep to heal itself. John's body likewise, both the visible injuries, and the hidden, humiliating ones.

They were, as a consequence of all this lazing, up early the following morning. Sherlock was completely flummoxed by the idea that there was nothing they actually needed to do. That they were free agents. No one chasing them to try to kill them and nothing urgent to attend to.

.............

They went to London Zoo in the end. It was daft, but John wanted Sherlock to completely switch off, and that seemed like the best option. And it was not far to travel.

There were a lot of children there, of course, running around, great swooping herds of school kids and little ones too, with their parents, which made John think perhaps he had got this one totally wrong. Sherlock hadn't been comfortable with children around him recently, not even his own....especially his own. So he was surprised that, once they had strolled around a multitude of enclosures and narrowly missed being pelted by a lump of dung wielded by an ape with a brilliant eye for victims, Sherlock seemed to mellow a little and didn't even seem to mind when a foreign tourist asked him to take a photo of her and her little girl by a giraffe and he charmed the pair by telling them about the unique pattern of markings on the animal.

After they had walked for some time and visited most of the main attractions, John could see Sherlock tiring and looking white faced, though, typically for Sherlock, he had said nothing. They came to a halt by a smooth grassy bank and sat down. 

John went and bought them ice creams and Sherlock perked up as he finished his requested small orange lolly and then watched John struggling to eat his whipped ice-cream cone quickly enough, before it all melted. They hadn't had any ice-cream fun since Hogmanay, and Sherlock thought that should probably be rectified very soon. He reached out a finger and blocked the path of a dribble of strawberry sauce running down John's chin, and sucked on it thoughtfully. 

John watched him, smiling. Then took a blob of ice cream and dabbed it on Sherlock's nose. Sherlock reached up with his tongue and licked it off. John leaned against him and breathed in his smell, of orange lolly and fresh air and Sherlock.

...............

After the ice cream games were over, they left the zoo and went by taxi to the Oxo Tower, mainly chosen by John for the views over the Thames. They ate fish (cut up for them as requested) and watched the river boats with tourists and commuters, the dredgers, the speed boats and the barges taking rubbish down to Essex. 

And they talked about almost everything, except, of course, Parthalan. 

Later that afternoon, Sherlock surprised John, by suddenly saying he had an appointment and needed to go out for a couple of hours. John thought it was with Tamara and Sherlock didn't correct him. Given Tamara's positive effect on Sherlock after their last session, John didn't mind at all and happily went back to the hotel to wait. Sherlock was only going to be away a couple of hours after all, and John thought he might have yet another snooze. It was amazing how great sex and too much food and drink made one so tired.

................

Sherlock didn't say much when he returned, and John could only see a combination of nervousness and smugness in his face, and he wasn't sure how that meant the therapy had gone. Normally Sherlock came back looking drained and grim. It must have been a good session. 

.................

It was when they were back at the hotel that night, that the subject of the baby finally resurfaced.

John was lying on the bed, looking idly through the room service menu. He seemed to have done nothing but eat since they left Holmes Manor and he was glad to see that trend had included Sherlock too, who was doing much better at eating a little more. Not enough, but a bit better. 

For the first time, John wondered with the complicated prep requirements and practical issues, whether Sherlock's trustees might agree to funding a part-time housekeeper; not to put Mrs Hudson's nose out of joint, but to do some cooking and food prep for them? After all, Mycroft had a full time chef. And neither of them, for very different reasons, was able to really cater properly for their needs, especially if he wanted Sherlock to gain weight steadily. He decided to park that for now and revisit it later.

Whilst he was musing, Sherlock was fiddling with bit of spare change and John's cuff links, in the little tray on the mantelpiece. Distracted, clearly. John wondered if he was bored now, the hotel break now being 24 hours in......Maybe he wanted to go to 221B? Or steal a corpse? Molly was still at work for a while yet, before her pregnancy leave. Fingers were a possibility?

..............

Instead, for the second time in less than two days, John was about to get a shock. It was a good thing, that none of his various war wounds were heart-related.

...............

Sherlock walked over to the huge window. Staring out, at the scudding white clouds in the grey sky. The weather was changeable, and now it was a-changing. John ignored the clouds and instead admired the view of his shapely backside. Sherlock put his hands behind his back and turned to John. He looked a little like a Prime Minister on the steps of Number 10, making some momentous political announcement. (But younger and far more handsome and infinitely more fuckable, of course, thought John).

Then, he spoke. And it was, actually, truly momentous. It took the breath from John's lungs. 

'We'll go back, once this break is over, John. We'll get Parthalan, at the court hearing. And then, we will take him back to Baker Street.' 

................

Sherlock knew, of course, that John had heard exactly this before from him, just a few days before, only to see Sherlock then silently backtrack the very next day. He expected John to be cautious as a result, and lacking in trust. He waited for the statement saying as much.

But John, by now, was a different man; and he'd learned his lesson. He was consciously making an exception to his deep trust issues, accepting of the roadblocks on this journey and the diversions and go-slows. So John didn't look sceptical. He didn't doubt.

'You bloody wonderful amazing man. Have I told you that? I know you're doing this for me; that it's not of your choosing. We will, Kirsty and I, we will keep him out of your way just as much as we can and as much as you want us to. 

‘Just - thank you, God, thank you Sherlock. I would say you don't know what this means to me, but I know that you do, you really do. You can still back out. Until the court hearing, at any point. You know, and it would be fine. Hard, but fine, completely fine.

‘Remember that. Not committed yet, ok?'

Sherlock smiled with relief and beckoned John over to him and John stood beside him, arms wrapped around the slender waist, his head against the bony ribcage. Cook, yes. They would have a cook. It could happen. This could work. Please God, let it work.

..................

'There's something else.'

John's head raised slightly, quizzical. 

'Is that not enough?'

Sherlock smiled. 

'I didn't see Tamara this afternoon.'

'No?'

'No.'

'Oh. What was it then? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, of course.'

John was feeling nervous now. He had no idea what was going on.

'I went to pick up something.'

Sherlock handed John a small green velvet bag. John took it and pulled open the drawstrings. Inside was a box, red velvet this time. 

He opened it.

Dog tags. White gold, solid and heavy. Engraved with Sherlock's details, name, blood group etc. A matching pair, for the workmanlike steel set of John's own army tags, which Sherlock wore around his neck at all times (other than when trying to avoid being killed in bare-knuckle boxing bouts, of course). 

John thought it was an incredible gesture and said so, then hugged and kissed Sherlock passionately and really quite dirtily. Once they had finally peeled themselves off each other, Sherlock, panting a little, spoke.

'Take a closer look at them'.

John hadn't really looked closely, just glanced at the words engraved. He looked again. The name on the tags read:

"Sherlock Watson-Holmes".

................ 

He looked up, confused. Sherlock looked nervous. 

'What?'

'You said, John, that "Sir John Watson" sounded too plain and pedestrian. I thought, therefore I could donate my name and we could double-barrel it. Accompanied by all the vacuous and unnecessary administrative arrangements and social interaction such ceremonies pointlessly demand of course. I don't even LIKE tiramisu and it's always on reception menus, like eating face-cream with insect powder on top, quite apart from the meaningless and fatuous.....'

John felt a coil of nervous tension and anticipation erupt in his stomach. He couldn't see very well and he held onto Sherlock's sleeve, failing to find any reliably stable furniture within reach. He breathed noisily through his nose.

'Sherlock, what the fuck exactly are you suggesting? In words preferably of no more than one syllable, please? Because I'm finding it quite hard to believe this.'

'I'm suggesting, John, that we should marry. That I think we should marry. If you'll have me. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to. I'm told I'm not a very pleasant....'

He stopped.

John narrowed his gaze at Sherlock, then shook his head in amazement. Sherlock Holmes, who saw no point, or advantage, or value, in titles or ceremonies or traditions of any kind, had just asked John to marry him. 

Whilst simultaneously slagging off the whole concept, institution and culinary choices, of course. John thought he might quite like tiramisu for dessert.......

................

'John. You really need to shut your mouth now, or you are going to be catching flies in there.'

Sherlock's voice came as if out of a haze, and brought him back to full attention. Still holding the white gold tags.

John was still fairly struck dumb.

'I - uh. Um. Don't know what to say. It's never been something that I've contemplated? With a relationship, like ours, like this? For us? And I never thought you would be interested, either? I mean, I know the legislation is new, and so maybe the ability to actually get married, rather than a civil partnership, made a difference?'

'No. That made no difference, John. It was something else. You know I care little about these things, but after recent events, I realised that you need to be completely confident in me. Have confidence that I think i can keep private things private and just between us. That there is only 'us'. Will only ever be us. That I will try to do my best to be some sort of a father to Parthalan, even if not a very good one. 

‘That's of course if you have any interest in marrying, that you haven't been put off by...'

John did NOT want to talk about Mary now. He cut in.

'Okay. okay. So let me get this straight, cause I'm kind of losing my bearings here? We are going to parent Parthalan? We are going to get married (Christ, even saying that sounds weird)? And I'm going to get a fucking knighthood from the fucking Queen? Is that it? Anything else you want to spring on me? You're actually an alien? Your mother is a Cyborg?'

'Uh, noooo. Although that is a possibility? You have met her. And you might need to moderate the language in front of our blessed Sovereign, John.

‘But there is one thing you've forgotten, no, two.'

'What?'

'One. When we go back to the Dower House you WILL buy me more of those almond croissants from Mr Heavenly Buttery Bakery man in Bath. 

‘And two, I demand an epic shag from you within the next twenty three minutes if my offer is to stand.'

'Oh you'll be standing alright, soldier', John murmured, his eyes shining. 'Standing to attention, all shagging night'...

...............

Sherlock looked at him now, his gaze intense.

'What is your answer, then, John? To the idea - marrying me?'

John looked up at him. 

Then after a long pause, he shook his head.

'I can't give you an answer yet.' 

Sherlock looked shocked. And rather crushed.

'Why on earth not?'

'Because.......Because you haven't seen it yet.'

'Seen what?'

'My arm. You haven't seen the state of it. 

‘And I know you're really not bothered by these things and blah blah blah, but people always say that, Sherlock, good people, kind people. Always. They say it and they mean it when they say it, but it doesn't always last.

‘I've got mates who came back from Afghanistan and had the best, most solid marriage you could imagine; anyway, they came back missing some bits and for some of them, it was too much for the spouse to cope with. Or maybe they had changed as people and they weren't the man or woman any more that their partner had married. Now that might have been personality changes from the effects of conflict, rather than just the limbs, but, it does happen. 

‘Basically, I'm saying yes, Sherlock, I am saying yes, oh God I am; but I'm not saying it until this cast is off in a few weeks time, and you've lived with what remains of my arm for a bit. I'm being really honest because I've been screwed over once in marriage. I just can't take being betrayed again and Sherlock, I really, really, don't want to end up hating you.' 

...............

Sherlock took John in his arms then. Wrapped his long limbs around his short, maimed body. No one on this earth, no one, was going to harm this body again. 

'I am taking this as a "Yes", John. Because I know how it will go, when the cast comes off. No impediment. None. 

‘And I will set the wheels in motion. Nothing that can't be cancelled, but it won't need to be. And then, in two months time, we can announce it officially. Your cast will have been off for a month by then.'

'Yeah, yeah. That sounds good.'

John wiped a tear from his eye.

'Come here, you'

He enveloped Sherlock with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few fics I've read have had John Watson being awarded military honours, and in one or two cases, something way out of the realms of credibility for his Afghan military service, like a VC. Not only is that unrealistic, there are vanishingly few awarded, and hardly ever to living donors, it doesn't match with what we know of John's military record. Distinguished, but that's all. 
> 
> So I though much more likely would be that Mycroft who has considerable influence in civilian honours, but very little in matters military, would be much more likely to secure John one of those, the highest he could, which would be a knighthood. Even then, the award was primarily for John's post army M16 missions and the humanitarian side, rather than the army stuff. 
> 
> I hope that this makes for a more credible, believable narrative. John is the type of man who does value that kind of stuff, and both Sherlock and Mycroft know it.


	22. Going Home

Sherlock and John enjoyed the rest of their stay in London, though John could tell that Sherlock was clearly apprehensive about returning to the Dower House even for a short time. And that being so close to Baker Street, was making Sherlock physically itch to return there. 

John could sense him almost smelling the roisin and the formaldehyde and that special quality of dust though sunlight. 

And John was on edge because of his own inevitable doubts, on whether Sherlock really could carry through with his plans? There wouldn't be a second chance, this time, they both knew. This was it.

They talked, that third and final evening at the hotel, about Sherlock, and about his future. John's own future, after all, was clearly tied up with Parthalan, assuming all went ahead as planned. Sherlock told John that he thought that Mycroft might also have some ideas, less life-threatening and limb-subtracting ideas, for future John-career options, but didn't seem to know anything specific. 

It was Sherlock, John realised, who in some ways was more at a loss. Cast adrift by the Yard since his post-Magnusson breakdown and devoid of deranged master criminals to play games of cat-and-mouse with, he was staring at a bleak future as an M16 master-scientist and John knew only too well what a negative effect those sorts of shackles had inflicted on Sherlock the first time round he tried that game. 

..................

So he asked Sherlock straight out, as they were seemingly in the zone for plain speaking just now. 

'What are you planning to do? If I'm caring for Parthalan with Kirsty; how will you fill your days?'

Sherlock looked pained. Conflicted. Glum.

'I want to go back to working with the Met, like the old days. Solving the cases they're too rubbish and incompetent to solve themselves. All the tricky ones. But I don't know if they'll agree. I can't work for Six, I'm not suited. I don't mind helping out in extremis, especially if Mycroft has to beg me, he's a fine sight when he's begging, but I'm not clocking in at the labs again. I can't do that.'

John nodded. He might have felt easier in his mind with something more prosaic and definitely with something safer now that there was a child in the picture, but he knew in his heart that would never, ever, make Sherlock happy.

'Then let's get Greg over this evening, shall we, and we'll talk to him? We might need Mycroft too, to put pressure on in the right places, but first of all Greg needs to see you fit and well and positive. He loves you, Sherlock and he'll help if he can, he just needs to see that you're in a place where you can and will make use of the help. Which you are, now.'

John went off to phone Greg, and Sherlock stayed sitting on the sofa, twirling his coffee cup round and round in his hand. Lips pursed, deep in thought.

...................

John came back. 

'He's coming over, he says he's got some time now. He sounded a bit guilty, not to have been more in touch, Molly's had a couple of hairy moments in the pregnancy so he's been staying close to base.'

Sherlock looked concerned.

'She's well, though? Molly?'

'Yeah, she's fine, they're much more relaxed now. They're having a girl, apparently.'

John looked at Sherlock. He actually looked moved by the mention of a child. Maybe because it wasn't his own, but maybe also because he knew how much it would mean to Greg and Molly. And his deep abiding gratitude to Molly for what she did for him in the Fall would never fade. Brave, kind, wonderful Molly.

'Thats, really good, John. Good.'

.....................

 

Lestrade turned up bearing a bottle of very indifferent wine, (being firmly a beer man), and a broad smile. 

'Your brother rang me, Sherlock. Last night. He said I should expect you to get in touch.'

John blinked.

'How the hell?'

Sherlock shrugged. For once he didn't look irritated by his brother's nose-poking.

'He can read me better than anyone. You know Mycroft......'

Greg sat down on the sofa, as relaxed as ever, arm stretched out along the back. 

'Mycroft told me you have a son, Sherlock. Congratulations. I never honestly thought they would go through with that whole lunatic scheme.

Sherlock inclined his head in acknowledgement.

‘One thing gets me though. I'd never have taken you for the paternal type? How did they persuade you?'

John looked down at the carpet, studying it closely. Sherlock looked at Greg steadily. 

'John was in prison, Greg. In prison.'

Greg frowned. 

'Yeah, I know all that. But.....wait a minute.You mean they blackmailed you to agree to the baby, with John's freedom as the prize? That's kind of screwed up, seriously? I thought he got let off because of the "being sleeping at the time" thing?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'That would still have risked a custodial sentence of some kind. I couldn't take that risk. But there was more to it, much more. Mycroft saw, still sees John as a continuing risk to me. To allow John to come back and live with me, to allow me to take that risk, he wanted a backup. And he wanted that anyway, to continue the family name.'

...............

Lestrade shook his head, and whistled. 

'Bloody hell. They really are something, that family of yours. And not in a good way. In a creepy way. Glad they're not mine, Sherlock. What's the little chap's name, anyway?'

'Parthalan Mycroft Holmes'.

There was a sidelong look from Greg. A "You are having me on here, aren't you, mate?" look.

Sherlock, not really anyone's "mate" in his life, merely raised a single eyebrow archly, silently querying if there was an issue here?

John grinned, sat back and folded his arms. He was enjoying this thoroughly, now that they were off the subject of that terrible night in Baker Street. Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John and back again, in the manner of a low-grade tennis umpire in scratched bifocals. Cleared his throat.

'Okay. You're serious. That's the poor little sod's name? I thought you lot were trying to avoid trauma for the next generation? That's not a great start for the poor blighter. He must have a shorter version, or a nickname, please to God?'

John chipped in. 

'Mycroft and your mother asked the same, Sherlock. I said I'd ask you. Forgot, though, sorry.'

Sherlock hummed a bit and frowned, and scowled, which on Sherlock was a whole new range of expressions distinct from a frown, and then said: '"Bee". It was my nickname, long ago, so he can have it. "Bee".'

John smiled. From not being able to hear his childhood nickname, to now offering it to his own child? Perhaps Sherlock really was making giant strides inside that funny old head of his, when all they saw from the outside were tiny fairy footsteps of progress. He kissed Sherlock's cheek with a deliberately loud smack. Sherlock went bright pink.

Lestrade cleared his throat.

'Right, well, enough of the slurpy lovey-dovey stuff, you two. What did you bring me here for?' 

Lestrade was pretty cool with them kissing: just worried that with the track record of these two, it could turn into an exhibition of world-class rimming and he really wasn't up for that just now. He had his own limited track-record in same-sex activities, but it was a long while back, and he, unlike this pair of clowns, saved it for the privacy of the bedroom......

John had sometimes wondered about Greg and Sherlock, whether there had ever been anything there or if Greg had simply been the knight in shining armour. Did he really just scoop him up and look after him? Maybe he would never know unless he asked. And John wasn't going to ask. Not now, and maybe not ever. You don't ask questions to which you don't want to know the answer.

....................

Sherlock leaned forward. 

'I want out: I'm going to leave M16. The deal was they got both of us or neither and at least for now, John can't serve with them. And as a pair, we've sacrificed more than enough for our country, especially John. So I go too and I want to go back to doing what I do best, saving the Met's reputation and getting you out of holes, Greg. 

‘I know you weren't happy with the way things were with John and I, and some of our behaviour at crime scenes. That's changed. I nearly lost him, again. We have a child (a smile from John at hearing Sherlock tell a third-party this) with an admittedly ridiculous name; that we both, but especially John, need to care for. And I understand now, how unsuited I am to a structured work-life; the dangers of pursuing criminals frankly lags far behind the risks I present to myself, when bored and frustrated.

‘So, if I can undertake to behave appropriately at crime scenes; that means limiting our PDAs to the so called "normal range" of affectionate kisses and occasional snogs with all clothing intact, would you consider allowing me to take up the reins again?'

....................

Greg looked at Sherlock fondly. 

'You know, I never wanted to ban you from crime scenes, Sherlock, not completely. You just left me no choice; your behaviour was hard for some of my staff to take, cos they know what trouble they'd get into, if they did the same things you got away with. And they didn't have any idea of all the shit you were dealing with. That was of course, quite right that they didn't, but it did mean that the more out-there stuff, I just didn't have any defence for. You put me into a corner.

‘So yes. Provided you two can keep your wandering hands and roving dicks out of each others orifices and your clothes on in public, at least in my sight and that of my team, then I'd welcome your help, Sherlock and John too, when you want to come in on cases. Even with a Parthalan in a papoose. Or should that be a Bee in a buggy?'

Sherlock stood, and hugged Lestrade. Hugged. Put his arms voluntarily around another person and squashed them. John's mouth dropped open.

'Thank you, Greg.' 

Greg pointed to him. 

'That, Sherlock, was my actual correct name?'

'Yes?'

Greg sighed.

'Never mind, doesn't matter.........'

..................

They went back to the Dower House the next day. Mycroft was due to come down too and before they had finished unpacking, he arrived silently at the front door. He looked strangely subdued. A rare and precious sight. John wondered why it was so. 

Mycroft saw the gold dog tags around John's neck, almost before John had fully opened the door. Said nothing about them while social pleasantries were observed, but once they sat down with coffee and cut-up bits of Bath pastries, it didn't take him long....

'I came to talk with you two, about Parthalan and the court hearing. But perhaps there is some other news that we should be discussing? Sherlock? John?'

He sat back, eyebrows raised, looking from one man to the other, expectantly. Sherlock decided to stay well out of this one and leave John to decide what, if anything, he was happy to say. He busied himself cleaning out the fire grate.

John smiled a small insincere smile.

'Nope. Nothing we need to discuss, Mycroft, thank you very much for your interest. Now, about the court hearing....'

Sherlock, still scuffling amongst the ashes in the grate, wasn't upset by John's reticence. Privately, John had said yes. He was wearing Sherlock's tags. Mycroft would know what that meant, whatever John said. But publicly, John didn't want to be open, until he was sure of Sherlock's reaction to his disfigurement. John, his John, his precious John, was a deeply proud man and still in the early stages of struggling to come to terms with his injury himself. He would take much more convincing, to be sure that others accepted, what he could not yet accept himself.

..................

Before Mycroft discussed the court hearing, John felt he needed to get some clarity on Mycroft's own position. 

'So, Mycroft, are you reconciled to us being granted full, permanent custody of our baby?'

Deliberate possessive words and harshly worded, perhaps, but it did the job.

John held his breath. 

Mycroft looked uncomfortable. He shifted a little in his chair.

'I am indeed, John. I discussed the matter with my parents at some length....'

I bet you did, thought John. You mean, Mycroft, that your Dad, your lovely old Dad, got all alpha-Silverback for once in his mild-mannered oh-so courteous life on you and told you to keep your sticky fingers out of your brother's life and that of his child, however good your motives......God, I love Sherlock's Dad, I'm going to hug him so fucking hard....

'.....and it was agreed that with your good self, John, being present to ensure stability and competent care' (Hard stare from Sherlock now) '...and with the periodic oversight of Tamara, with whom I have spoken at great length, that there is no major familial obstacle to the granting of full custody and of you two returning to Baker Street with Parthalan immediately after the court hearing, should you wish to do so.'

..............

John placed his hands on the knees of his soft moss-green chinos, and exhaled mightily.

'Oh, we do wish, Mycroft. We really bloody do. This place - this property - is not good for Sherlock, you know that, it's positively toxic for him. And the sooner we get Parthalan into his routine at home, the better. Is Kirsty OK with the plan too?'

'She's ecstatic, John. She thought she could cope with being stuck out here in the sticks but I rather think it's driving her slightly mad. She can't wait to get back to London.'

'Good.' This was going better than John had expected or hoped. He turned to Sherlock, who was now sucking on a sugar cube. John wasn't sure they had any. He suspected Sherlock had found it somewhere dropped on the floor when cleaning out the fire. Honestly. Can't make the man eat - and then find him eating the mice's tea. 

'Happy?'

A crunching sound. And a small Sherlock private smile to John, tempered with nervousness. This was distinctly uncharted emotional territory. The smallest of nods.

'Mmmm. Yes. Happy.'

John thanked the heavens above, for the day he had the bloody sense to stop pressurising Sherlock to accept Parthalan, and enabled him to start to make his own way towards accepting and one day perhaps, maybe even loving his son. There was a long road still to travel to reach that goal, a very long road, but at least they had a chance at it now.

..................

The court hearing took place a little over a week later. It was low key, with no wigs or gowns. Just suits and brisk officials. The courtroom modern, with chairs, not benches. The judge, a stern but smiley type. 

Parthalan was there, at the centre of it all, dressed, at Mycroft's specific request, very traditionally, in a little sailor suit. Sherlock was cross and decided that outfit was "Going, John", but John, ever the diplomat, who had willingly allowed Mycroft this small concession, whispered to him that it already looked a little short on the baby and in a few weeks it wouldn't fit him anyway........Despite Sherlock's sartorial critique, Parthalan looked completely edible and his eyes, that incredible colour now of pale oceans, flashed with amusement as all the adults fussed around him. 

Well, all the adults except one. 

One was still semi-detached, preferring to watch his son from a safe distance, to watch the people who knew effortlessly what to do with small children, do their effortless thing. 

We all know which one. 

Before the hearing, Sherlock, immaculately dressed in his customary Hart and Belstaff, sat on a low brick wall and played with his phone, made some online chess moves, answered some texts, while all the time being sharply aware of the all-powerful small face of a tyrant staring at him from over John's shoulder. 

.................

John had been nervous about the court hearing. He'd dealt with family courts before, in cases involving patients whose lives were considerably less chaotic and bizarre than his and Sherlock's. They didn't always get to hang onto their kids.....

John's hands were sweating and so was the back of his neck, the back of his knees and everywhere else that sweat likes to make an appearance whenever it is most inconvenient for it to do so. As a result, his Huntsman suit, bought by Sherlock "That Day", was struggling to do for John, what Sherlock's attire never failed to do for him. John was, frankly, looking a bit crumpled.

Even with the Holmes influence, Sherlock and John had needed to submit to all kinds of intrusive social services reports and some of them, he knew, must make pretty lurid and damning reading. Or rather, unknown to John; they WOULD have made lurid reading.....had not the vast majority of the most "damning and lurid" content been formally redacted from the documents, apparently under the very conveniently flexible powers of the Official Secrets Act. 

So there simply "was no" desert tent PTSD attack by John. It didn't happen. No drug abuse or overdoses by Sherlock. Extraordinary. His hospital stays were for unrelated reasons, less culpable reasons. No Magnusson murder. He died of a sudden massive brain haemorrhage. Such a sad and sudden loss to the news world. Little detail of the Moran operation. Only the heroic bits. All "Who Dares Wins" and no drug-dealers fucking our protagonist against dumpsters in exchange for pathetically small paper packets of coke.

There were more blacked out lines in these documents than there had been blacked out windows in the London Blitz in World War Two. And just like those darkened windows, these obscured lines protected these brave but vulnerable citizens from hostile attention.

..................

Instead, there was given, on paper and on screen, a beautifully sanitised portrait of John's glittering army and medical career, topped with the cherry on the cake, his recent nomination for a knighthood.

There was a whitewashed version of Sherlock's conquest of Moriarty, and his years spent bravely dismantling his criminal and terrorist network. The lives he had saved, the cases he had solved.

There were photos of the superb facilities in place for the baby, detailed background on the utterly unimpeachable nanny, glowing testimonials about the Holmes family themselves, and the same for their friends, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, the man who fixed the boiler, the chip shop owner Sherlock "put shelves up" for.....even Billy Wiggins portrayed as an upright member of society holding down a steady job in the parcel courier and pharmaceutical industries (an odd combination to be fair).

In short, this was a document which omitted almost everything a social services panel would have wanted to have seen, had they been allowed to; which instead painted everything that was included with a rainbow glow of sunlight and fairy dust. 

With the best possible motives behind it. To reunite this child with his father. 

...................

The result, when it came, was a foregone conclusion. It could not be otherwise, the whole process was a masterpiece of the Mycroftian machine. It was brief, and to the point. They stood. They sat. The judge read out a statement.

"Permanent custody is hereby irrevocably granted jointly to the natural father (William) Sherlock Scott Holmes and his partner John Hamish Watson."

Parthalan was going home with them. Sherlock hadn't backed out. It was really happening. John, when he heard the ruling read out in court, sat down heavily on the hard wooden chair, holding the seat in front of him for support, while he breathed heavily, Sherlock's hand there now, rubbing his back. Sherlock gripped his arm as they left the courtroom and out into the lobby and the fresh air.

.....................

After the hearing, while they waited for various items of paperwork to be tied up, John realised how much work Mycroft must have put in, to ensure this result, but which in the process also effectively removed any possibility of Mycroft himself being able to keep Parthalan to raise him in his own image, as a 'proper' Holmes. It hit him, then, what all that must have cost Mycroft. John could only feel those feelings, once the war was won. 

He caught up with the elder Holmes outside the court building, where he was standing alone, smoking a cigarette by some iron railings, despite the very clear and present danger of Mummy Holmes catching him.

John leaned against the railings, next to the tall patrician figure. Looked out at the stream of rush-hour traffic passing by, the occupants of every single vehicle totally oblivious to the momentous nature of events taking place so close by.

They stood for some minutes, neither speaking.

..................

Finally, John cleared his throat.

'I want to thank you, Mycroft. A lot. You didn't have to do that. You could have made things very difficult for us, I know that. And I know that your reservations are genuinely felt and your motivation benign. About me, I mean, and the dynamics of my relationship with your brother. I'm interested to know, though, why you changed your approach? Because I was sure, at one point, that you were going to set a lot more hurdles in our way?'

Mycroft sighed, and stubbed out his cigarette.

There was a long pause.

'My father, John, is a quiet man. He doesn't say a lot, and when he does, a lot of it is frankly inconsequential rubbish. I have no interest in the production history of minor West End Musicals, and neither should he, it is deplorable. But when he chooses to speak about people, about character and about human relationships, he knows more than any of us. Which is, of course, why he's coped with my mother all these years. She can be.......well........You know Sherlock - and he gets some of "it" from her......

‘My father was possibly the most affected of all of us, by what happened to William. My mother is very much old school, 'keep on keeping on' in the face of adversity, and really does think of doing that as the only way to be, as character building. She's genuinely strong. But Daddy, he's much more sensitive, like Sherlock is, and he understood right from the start, something of the scale of the destructive impact on his son. And William was his baby boy. So he's always had a special connection to Sherlock.

‘We also lost an elder brother: Sherlock is unlikely to have mentioned him. I was eleven and Sherlock was just four. Our brother was twelve. We don't speak about it, not then, not now and perhaps not ever. So you see, our father has suffered much, more than anyone should have and he has only two of us left. And with Sherlock, that's almost been worse than losing a child altogether, because it has been decades of pain for them both. Well, for all of us, of course.

‘But he's also not a well man, John. I would not wish to deny him his wishes. And he has expressed them. He reminded me, John, rather succinctly, pithily even, that Sherlock is not an extension of the power games I play at work; that he's not one of the playing pieces on the board. But he also reminded me of the positive; that the plan with the baby was always partly motivated by my belief that the baby could be genuinely good for Sherlock, as well as providing a Holmes heir. 

‘That this last consideration was the only reason, that he himself had finally not vetoed the plan to start with and that it was therefore unfair of me to give up on my brother in the short term, when the benefits would only show in the long term and it was bound to be hard for him to start with. And that, in short and he was unusually blunt about it, John, it was time for me to let go of trying to run Sherlock's life and to let you take that role. For me to be a normal brother. Be a doting uncle. 

‘That it is undeniable, that you do present some risks to Sherlock, John; I don't hide my concern about that. My father knows it and sees those too, but that there are equal or greater risks in denying him your love and companionship. And he told me that the next time Sherlock comes to me looking for me to organise an emotional or physical crutch for him, I am to send him home to you, where he belongs, for him to sort it out, with you, in private. 

‘I've always tried to protect him from the world, and from himself, John; knowing that I failed in the worst way possible with Lang has, I admit, made it verge on an obsession. 

‘But I'm stepping back now. I'll be here to help, but I'll wait until I'm asked.'

................

John was moved almost to tears, by this unprecedented outpouring of honesty from Mycroft. He knew he couldn't enquire further about the bombshell that was the revelation of a third Holmes brother, though that had made him gasp. Not for now, at least. 

So he turned to Mycroft's relationship with Sherlock, always a very touchy topic between these two men, who both loved Sherlock so very much.

'Won't it hurt a lot, though, being more distant from him? Not so intertwined in all his affairs?' John knew that Mycroft's feelings for Sherlock were so much more complicated and worthy of a psychiatrist, than the average brotherly relationship. And just how much pain this stepping back would involve.

'Yes, it will.' 

Mycroft turned around now, looking away from John, to face the court building, watching as Parthalan was bundled into the car, ready for the trip to his new home, to his new life away from the Manor and away from Mycroft. His eyes were damp, John noticed. John didn't mention it. And ignored the large silk hanky being deployed to deal with it.

'And I expect I will always be lonely without his presence. Perhaps feel properly lonely for the first time, rather than just alone? But - that's the way of it, John, isn't it? Not everything can be free from pain. You know that better than anyone, I imagine?'

John did know. Knew about losing friends in war, losing a relationship with his mother to her hatred and prejudice, losing his self-control to blind anger, his career to injury; and finally, and probably the worst of it all for this man of great bravery, losing his dignity to a kidnapper who let him beg and then violated him anyway.

He knew. And he understood.

He nodded, and with his one good arm, hugged Mycroft, who looked alarmed, and gruffly said that he thought the car was ready to leave now and they really should get back to the others.....

...................

But just before they did so, Mycroft, who John thought was looking a little older today, slightly less sure of the world, pressed something into John's hand. 

'This is a gift, John, from Abdullah, or I should say, from Wasim. He won't be contacting either of you again; he understands that it is best. But if, and only if, you were agreeable, John, he wanted Sherlock to have this. To mark the fact that Sherlock survived to see his son and, he hopes, will now live to watch him grow up?

John looked at the jewellery case, Arabic script written on the bottom. He gave a small smile. 

'It's not a fucking gazelle, is it Mycroft?'

Mycroft smiled.

'Not quite. Open it. Wasim knows you need to be happy with it and if you aren't, he will understand if you cannot accept it, and I will return it to him. He will not be in any way offended. Really it's a gift for you to give to Sherlock, should you feel able to.'

................

John slowly opened the gold-tooled leather box. Inside was a watch. It was incredibly heavy. Solid gold, white and rose. John had never held anything so valuable in his life, except perhaps the rather plain but priceless jade hairpin in the "Blind Banker" case. 

On the glittering dial of the watch was a perfectly etched image - of a Phoenix rising out of a flaming pyre..........the eyes set with round brilliant aquamarines, and the wings channel-set with dazzling round brilliant diamonds. A lot of them. John turned the stunning object over in his hand, thinking, while Mycroft looked on, deep in thought.

Eventually, he turned to Mycroft, and cleared his throat. 

'Tell Ab....Wasim. Tell him that his gift is most generous, and much appreciated. And that I thank him from the bottom of my heart for the role he has played in..... everything. 

‘And most of all, Mycroft, thank him for his not taking what he could perhaps have taken, but he didn't. Tell him that for me, would you, Mycroft?'

Mycroft bowed his head. He looked glad at this small consolation.

'It would be my pleasure, John.'

................

John looked at Mycroft again. Nodded at him.

'You love him, don't you? Wasim, I mean?'

Mycroft looked away, towards the court building. To his brother and his nephew.

'I love my work, John. You know that. All else is secondary.'

'That doesn't preclude you having feelings, you know.'

Mycroft was still gazing at Sherlock and Parthalan. He seemed to have forgotten the watch, and Wasim, now. He smiled a small sad smile.

'It does not, John. Quite correct.'

Mycroft gazed on, both at his beloved brother, whose whole life had been a chaos of intense love and hopeless pain for him, and whom he was today allowing to walk away, then at the tiny baby, who in a very different way, could also not ever be his.

He clamped his mouth shut into a narrow line. A thin smile. Raised the tip of his umbrella to examine it closely. John wasn't fooled. John stood there, while a whole world of words went unspoken between them. 

John saw where Mycroft's gaze had rested. Not at the watch, not at the gift from Wasim. At his brother.

........................

Finally, Mycroft broke the silence. 

‘Thank-you for this exchange, John. As always, most agreeable. Now, I think we must go. The driver is looking crosser by the minute...'

And that was it. Mycroft turned and strode off, swinging his umbrella....

John stood at military parade rest for a minute, then nodded once again, and followed Mycroft's tall figure back to the cars.

 

............

 

They left for Baker Street that same day, this strangely formed family, all of Parthalan's immense trousseau having been stuffed into two cars. Sherlock and John and Parthalan in the first car; Mycroft and his parents and Kirsty in the second.

The impromptu reception party was in full flow when they got to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson, of course. Greg and the ever-larger looking Molly, Billy Wiggins necking all the spring-rolls he could trouser, Mrs Turner and both her Married ones, who were all three already two sheets to the wind, Mike Stamford looking equally ecstatic at the profiteroles and the family gathering for the couple he had introduced, Angelo (without sexy candles today), even. 

Only Mr Dubious Chip Shop Favours was missing. Perhaps a shelf had fallen on him. Put up in a hurry by distracted workmen, perhaps? Tempted away by the promise of a jumbo sausage with their chips?

.................

John was touched. Sherlock was furious. He pulled John into a corner of the hallway to hiss at him.

'Why are they all here?'

'Its nice, and it's touching, Sherlock. They're here because they care about you and about us. And they're happy to see you back here, and especially to meet your son.'

'If they cared about me they would know I hate this. All the standing and talking and people. If they cared, they would know this is not what I planned, John.'

'No, I know it's not what you planned, Sherlock. You planned on not seeing anyone, not talking to anyone, hurling your baby at the nanny and then me rogering you senseless against the periodic table on the wall of our bedroom. At least, I imagine that's what you had planned?'

John had folded his arms and was looking indulgently amused at Sherlock's frustration. Sherlock hissed at being unmasked so obviously. 

'Not the periodic table. Too high up. Against the wardrobe. Standing, my face pressed into the door. Splinters, John. There might be splinters! 

John. Just get rid of them. Or there will be Experiments.'

'Ahhh nooo. None of that talk. Give me two hours. I promise they will all be gone.'

....................

John was as good as his word. He both graciously and diplomatically evicted their still-chattering guests at the allotted deadline with parcels of the remaining food, settled Parthalan and Kirsty in down in 221C, where the baby was staying until tomorrow and finally escorted a very tipsy and emotional Mrs Hudson back into her flat. He waited until she'd downed a good handful of soothers and then he stomped back upstairs. It had taken a while to say all the goodbyes.

Sherlock had been washing-up in a rather haphazard manner, when he left him. Now he was coming out of the bathroom, looking pink and suspiciously well scrubbed. He looked at John. He leered shamelessly.

'Clean. Everywhere, John. Too clean, now. Everywhere, John.'

'Oh, OK?'

John smirked.

'You need someone to make you feel dirty again, do you, you nasty sordid lad?'

'That would be.....acceptable.'

'Right.'

John stepped forward and whispered in Sherlock's ear. 

'All the ropes. All the whips. The ear plugs. I'm going to get drinks and snacks. You, I want to find kneeling and ready, when I come back. And condoms and lube and a cock ring from Greg's box of tricks. This is going to last a long time, Sherlock. I'm going to make you wait, and I'm going to make you beg and you're going to come only when I decide.'

Sherlock couldn't move fast enough. 

..................

John was as good as his word. By the next afternoon, having extended Parthalan's exile with Kirsty twice, Sherlock was exhausted and covered in cuts, bruises and bites and was sporting the widest smile John had ever seen. John was sleepy and sated. They ate takeaway and then Kirsty dropped off Parthalan, who was staying the night with them for the first time ever.

For John, this was his dream realised. He sighed happily at the events of the past forty-eight hours. 

Sherlock? Maybe less so....

After about an hour, John deposited the baby onto Sherlock's lap as he needed to make tea and then go to the loo. There was a shout.

'John? Why aren't you holding him?'

'I'm making tea.'

'Oh.'

There was a silence - for about a minute.

Then a wail. 

'John! Come and get him now! Now! He doesn't like me!'

John's head poked in. Parthalan was staring at Sherlock with rapt attention, tiny fingers dabbing and poking at Sherlock's utterly stricken face. John walked over and squeezed Sherlock's hand, hard.

'That baby does love you. He is more bonded to you than anyone else, Sherlock. Anyone can see that and it doesn't matter if that doesn't fit with your negative image of reality. Tough. He adores you and you're going to have to get used to the fact.'

Sherlock looked more stricken still.

'No. Nooo, John. He will need to place his affections more appropriately. This is not a viable behavioural pattern for a small child. Kirsty must be not doing something right.'

'She's doing everything right. You're his father. He's your son. Don't worry that you'll let him down. Just relax.'

John disappeared back into the kitchen.

'This. THIS is not relaxing, John.

'JOHN!!'

...............

Tamara came over the following day, as usual on her way to the airport, off to some international troublespot. She met and admired Parthalan, even though he mostly scowled and then needed changing in a particularly explosive way. She had brought him a bee onesie, which conflicted Sherlock completely, since he hated onesies but Bees, John...... And she chatted for a little time to Sherlock while John made the tea. But then she wandered off and found John in the kitchen. 

'Hi. Wondered if I could have a word?'

'Yeah....of course....?'

John was puzzled. Tamara was Sherlock's therapist, not his business. Although he supposed she did now have a court-appointed role with the baby.

She smiled at him.

'I asked Sherlock if it was ok to speak with you. He's happy for me to.'

'Well, good, I guess.'

'Dont worry, it's nothing awful. I just want to know how things are going, and how you think they will go? With Sherlock, and with the baby? And you two?'

....................

John exhaled hard. Yeah, OK. It was good to offload stuff. Even if it was to a stranger, while he was folding sheets that he'd just finished laundering. This was a special class of stranger, to be fair.

'I think. That it won't be conventional. I mean, none of this set-up is, to start with. But I think he's not going to get into the Daddy thing, not anytime soon and that he's going to struggle to work out, how to structure his life around the baby's needs, without drowning in baby related panic. Cos he really is panicked by absolutely everything, even ridiculously tiny stuff.'

Tamara nodded.

'How does that leave you feeling? Does it disappoint you?'

John shook his head vigorously. 

'Nope. The thing, the only thing I fear, is all this being too much for him and him having a breakdown.......or worse. I mean, I really don't care how much or little he does with the baby, as long as he allows me and Kirsty to fill the gaps, and as long as the tiny bit he does do, is a good experience for them both. 

‘I just want him not to run. To stay with us long enough, Tamara, that he can learn to love his child?'

...............

Tamara looked at him with such sympathy that John fought to control his emotions, expressing as he was out loud for the first time, the dread fear that he could end up with Parthalan but by doing so, lose Sherlock altogether.

'Do you fear that he might not be able to do that?'

'Yeah, I do. Yeah. His instinct is to run, or to harm himself. And I've always feared that with Sherlock, that his desire to live, against reasons not to, seem to have been finely balanced for most of his life. I suppose it would be nice if my love could be enough reason to take all of that away totally, but....I have to recognise that he can't do that always for me, with the stuff from my own past; so I'm not entitled to be arrogant enough to be insulted, that the same might be true for him.'

Tamara put her hand on John's arm. 

'I think he'll make it, you know. You both will. And you're right, he won't be "Dad of the Year" material. Probably more like Uncle Quentin in the "Famous Five" books is to his daughter George.'

John knew all about George, real name Georgina. She had been Harry's idol, for years and years in junior school, for obvious reasons.....

He laughed. 

'Yeah, mad scientist, locked up in his study, forgetting to eat and with a devoted spouse and scowling child...sounds about right.....we'll just need Timmy the dog then.'

.................

Tamara looked at him. 

'You know, John, I know all about everything, the really terribly difficult moments you two have had. Why you fear things about each other. And that they make you lack trust in positive outcomes. But don't lose confidence, you two are made to be together, even when he pushes you harder than you think you can bear. And I've no doubt at all that he will make you wonder if you can bear it, at times. It's not you he's lashing out at.'

John looked at her straight in the eye.

'I know', said John. 'I know that now. I get it. Now I really, really do.'

Tamara would be away for several months, she said, but to call her if there were any crises. 

..................

John didn't call. Not those months. Not the following months. Not any month.

There were crises and some of them were so painful he burned with anger and fear. But none of them were ever so great that he could not withstand them, or, perhaps more accurately, none were so great that he wished to involve someone who now had a responsibility to the court and social services. 

John dealt with them alone and with strength. He had done that for years with Sherlock and this was, he told himself, just a new phase. A military campaign, almost. Holding and securing his territory and his troops. It wasn't always easy. Sometimes it was close to the edge for all concerned.

Sometimes he sent Parthalan away, for impromptu holidays at short notice with Kirsty. Not because Parthalan was in physical danger, but because there could be a lot of shouting and some throwing things and often words said which were not for a baby's ears.

Most of the time, he kept Parthalan safely out of Sherlock's zone of maximum irritability, except for certain specific acceptable-to-Sherlock moments John had discovered, like a cuddle after bath and before bedtime.

Sometimes he locked Sherlock into his study-lab, to keep him from whatever destructive impulse had seized him this time. 

...................

Sometimes, things were worse.

Sometimes he had to hold his lover in an arm-lock or body-hold just to keep him safe from the rages and furies that took over his body. The urges for drugs, or the rage of his inadequacy as a father, or memories of what his own childhood had turned into.

Sometimes he distracted him with hours and hours of sexual torment and pleasure denial. That one was not much of a hardship for either party.

Very, very, occasionally and only in extremis, John resorted to much stronger measures, of which he was not proud, as he forced Sherlock to sleep after days or weeks of his consistently failing to do so, by pointing at the sleeping pills and pointing a loaded gun at Sherlock until he took them. 

All the time, every day of every week, he made sure that Sherlock was fed and rested, stable and functional enough to be among the rest of the world. It was exhausting and it was upsetting at times, not being able to solve everything, knowing that some memories were worse for Sherlock with a child in the house, than they would have been without; even while Parthalan gave John such complete joy and happiness.

But it was enough. They were together, and they were a family.

They did not fall apart.


	23. Epilogue

Five years later.......

 

There are two figures walking slowly down a deserted sandy beach somewhere in Sussex. 

One is a man of around forty-five, greying, probably ex-military to judge by his gait. He seems to have one arm that works well, but the other is stiff and very deformed. As he stops to fetch something from the pocket of his chinos, he uses only his good arm, despite it being the wrong side. He does this with an air of someone who has long since adapted to his physical limitation.

There is a small child with him. He is holding their hand tightly. It is a little girl, of maybe two years old. She is clearly new to walking properly and she takes only a few steps on the soft, uneven surface before she is scooped up somewhat clumsily into the man's arms. 

He carries her up the steep cliff path and down a sandy track between gorse bushes and heather, the smell of sunshine and coconut filling the air from the acid yellow blossoms. Pipits and warblers fly out of the bushes, as the little girl giggles at something the man tells her.

..............

It is a long walk back to the cottage, and starting to get dark by the time they approach. The cottage has no electricity and the oil lamps have been lit. Smoke rises in a thin spire from the only chimney. A warm yellow glow shines out from behind the thin cotton curtains.

Sir John Watson-Holmes, for it is he who carries the girl, sets her down now, to enable him to open the ledge-and-braced wooden door. He steps inside, chivvying her in and takes her red quilted jacket from her small solid body, to hang it up on the plain varnished wooden pegs. Her knitted hat too, a home-made gift from Aunt Molly. It has squirrels on it, with rather bobbly heads, as Aunt Molly is fairly new to knitting and squirrels had proved more tricky to master than she'd expected. A row of wellington boots stand underneath the coat pegs like vibrant sentries.

John removes his own coat, now, and below his rolled up shirt-sleeve an unholy mess of a chewed-up right arm appears. It functions, but only for certain tasks. It's there, though. It might not have been.

'We're back!', he calls and a sound that must have been an acknowledgement, but sounds more like a grunt, emerges from the tiny white weatherboarded lean-to that is now used as a study at this part-time home. 

................

A second man now emerges, into the lamplight, tall and dark, a little younger than the first; handsome even now his curly hair is starting to grey. He is followed by a dark-haired, pale-eyed boy of about five years old. The boy is a veritable shadow of the dark-haired man, never once moving from his side. 

'Papa Lock!' 

Ishbel runs towards the dark-haired man and is treated, somewhat unusually, to being picked up and awkwardly hugged. It's a long way up, much further than into her father's embrace. The boy clings to the leg of his father and looks solemn, but then suddenly smiles at John. 

His smile is gappy and these smiles are not frequently bestowed gifts, but when they come, they are stunning. 

'Finished that experiment?'

John ties his scarf into a controllable knot and flings it on the chair back. Onto the tartan rug that covers it. This is John's chair, then.

'Almost. Bee helped me with classifying the leaf samples and then we've indexed them by nodal characteristics'....

The little boy looks proud and nods furiously. Still clinging to the long leg. 

'Tea?' 

John kisses the dark-haired man's head as it bends instinctively for the touch and is grasped firmly around the waist. A nose nuzzles his neck, sniffing to deduce where their walk has taken them in his absence.

'Love some. We'll have to pack soon though. If we're going to get back to Baker Street tonight.'

......................

It's lovely, really. Isn't it. Yes, it really is. 

Just a little "but"

All is not quite as it seems, here, in this picture of domestic coziness. It is not unlimited coziness. Quantified and measured coziness. Rationed coziness......

..............

John Watson became Sir John Watson, knighted by the Queen at the Palace, although Sherlock missed all but the key moment itself due to his inability to control his reactions to seeing John bedecked in full ceremonial uniform. He saw the moment itself from between some tasselled velvet curtains which concealed a corridor to the gents loos.....But John knew that's just where he would be and it's where he looked over to, once the sword had been tapped on his shoulders and he had bowed and backed away from the Queen.

John's mother was invited; she did come to the ceremony and John did hug her, though he did not smile. She was invited only after she apologised for some of the things she had said to him; her words made clear only that a son being knighted made sodomy acceptable now......Which was handy in the circumstances, as John in response screwed Sherlock extremely noisily in the hotel room next to hers, while still wearing the dress uniform including ceremonial sword, later that evening. When Sherlock yelped and came, he made sure he shouted 'Fuck me harder, harder Sir John!' and then screamed extra enthusiastically.

Mrs Watson left straight after breakfast the following morning and never met Sherlock's eye-contact once. 

And John didn't care.

................

Sherlock and John did marry and saddled themselves with the unwieldy moniker of "Watson-Holmes" (Sherlock, of course, having being way more fascinated by John's moon-crater arm than being remotely, in any way, repelled by it and thereby passing John's test with flying colours).

Mycroft and Greg were their best men, looking smart and proud. Well, Mycroft looked smart. Greg looked more handsome and crumpled. Louche, that was it. Louche lounge lizard.

Harry was a reluctant bridesmaid, in a lemon slubbed silk Stella McCartney trouser suit and floppy '70s hat that blocked half the photos. But she did keep off the drink, at least while the happy couple were around. And she told Greg and Mike Stamford some jokes that made even those two blush, which was probably a first.

So the wedding went fine...... and then Parthalan had croup....... and then Molly went into labour at the reception, John ending up ruining his army dress uniform delivering Molly and Greg's daughter on the floor of a sweaty marquee. It was no bad thing, on reflection, as they could afford a new one and if he was honest, the amount of times it had needed to been dry-cleaned to remove Sherlock's man-fluids from its woollen structure, meant a replacement was probably in order. Preferably Scotch-guarded this time ....

Harry made a hilarious speech. Well, hilarious at John's expense, obviously. Jokes about closets and Narnia featured highly.....Greg did a slide show...which was excruciatingly embarrassing....

Sherlock missed much of the reception as well, due to the "thing" with the dress uniform again. This time, however, John decided to join him. Mycroft covered for them both and said "John's arm was playing up". Well, it was "playing" alright, so it was only a white lie, but mainly it was playing with Sherlock's cock, or its military digits were knuckle deep up Sherlock's arse. But yes, playing.....

..................

Wasim was invited to the wedding, at John's surprising insistence. 

He was unable to attend openly as Mycroft's guest for security reasons, so an elaborate plan was hatched and the minor prince of a Middle East state was stuffed into a poorly-fitting and unspeakably shiny suit and armed with a clipboard, masquerading as an assistant to the wedding organisers. 

The problem was, Wasim even in cheap poorly-fitting suits, was still Wasim, a magnet to anyone under ninety with a pulse and so the poor chap spent the majority of the reception physically fending off tipsy guests of both sexes in large numbers, occasionally having to deploy the bulldog clip of his clipboard somewhat smartly on the wandering hands and fingers. 

Mycroft eventually located poor Wasim sheltering in the staff toilets, looking like a stag at bay from the hounds and was unable to restrain himself from consoling him in the very best way possible. That cheap shiny suit looked even worse, once it was very crumpled and slightly stained....John took one look at the poor man as they emerged red-faced from the toilets, and whispered loudly 'Blame it on the lobster mayonnaise'.....

They had tiramisu for dessert.

..................

Sherlock, in return for John's courtesy with Wasim, also insisted on inviting Major James Sholto; to John's surprise, he too came, enabling them to swap stories about their respective disfiguring injuries and who had the "most disgusted member of the public"or "rudest catcall in the street" anecdote. 

Sholto had followed Sherlock's progress and now had a "trick cyclist" of his own, which was helping a great deal. Also helping a great deal, was the fact that he appeared to be quite chummy with his new security detail, a short blond man, who, Sherlock smugly pointed out, didn't look entirely unlike a certain Sir John Watson-Holmes....he got a sharp dig in the ribs for that one.....

.................

John gave Sherlock the watch, the gift from Wasim, later that night. Sherlock smiled a truly beautiful smile, turning it over and over in the palm of his hand, Then he carefully put it back in the box, handing it to John, saying:

'You know I don't wear a watch, John. I have you for that kind of dullness......But we should keep this for Parthalan.'

John turned away and smiled to himself, knowing this was Sherlock understanding people, understanding him, John, in a way John had never thought him capable of, and arranged for the watch to be put into a safety deposit box at the bank. 

John later wrote a heartfelt letter of thanks to Wasim, in which he wrote not only that the watch would be a treasured heirloom for their son, but also writing at length of what he observed in the expression on Mycroft Holmes face when Wasim's name was mentioned. 

The existence and contents of this letter, have never disclosed by either John or Prince Wasim. 

................

Happiest, perhaps, of all of these events, was the last. 

John Watson-Holmes finally has the daughter he deserved; the little girl we met on the beach, courtesy of the estimable Anthea-not-Anthea and the amazing 'Alicia', (who was by now setting up her own children with healthy trust funds on the proceeds). 

John's daughter was named "Ishbel (Scots for Isobel) Anthea Alicia". This fair little girl has made him a very, very happy man and is as determined and brave as her Dad ever was. 

She also adores her Papa Lock, though he isn't around all the time.

There is the clue. To the faint fracture line....... 

.......................

Sherlock comes down to Sussex at weekends, spending his weekdays at Baker Street.

John and the children are there at Baker Street too, but only for a small part of the week. The rest, they spend here, in Sussex; this is where the children go to nursery, play on the beach and where John works part-time in the infant school, teaching, which he loves. Surrounded by sticky fingers, scraped knees and rows of tinies sitting cross-legged for story-time.

He turned down Mycroft's many and varied offers of glamorous employment and opportunity in London. There came a point where physical limitations meant John chose to define himself what he could and couldn't, cope with. Mycroft's suggestions were possible, certainly, but they would mostly have been at the limits of his capabilities. 

He is glad he did. He no longer wants to push himself. He has his children now.

................

And Sherlock? 

In the end, John decided, just for now, Sherlock can be a good father to very tiny children on a part-time basis. Or he can be a full-time father to them. 

But it became very clear, over those first few months and years, that he could not be both. 

..................

The rows, the disappearances, the moods, the furies, the cruel words, the self-loathing, the silences; even a one-off, or perhaps two-time (John's not sure on the second one) drug relapse.......All of these spoke eloquently and cruelly, of a man who could not share his mental and physical space full-time with babies he couldn't understand and in a real sense, actually feared. Whose presence evoked memories and panic.

And John would and could not expose their children to this, any more than he could sit at home in Baker Street, unable to follow Sherlock on crime detecting missions with only one good arm, or any more than he would ever, ever consider leaving Sherlock, even though so many people, good, loving people, certainly would. And some of them, good friends even, went so far as to tell him he should do so.

So John, who loves Sherlock beyond all expression and outwith any limit, has set up this life, this nomadic existence. Organises everything with military precision, so that everyone is where they should be, when they need to be. The children keep their Papa, for as much time as he can deal with and Sherlock can retain his mental stability, while the children grow up into entities he can cope with.

....................

John is a wise owl, growing wiser every year. He knows this phase won't last for ever; Lestrade is drawing back from legwork on cases and Sherlock himself takes longer to recover from exceptionally strenuous cases, especially as John isn't always there to help. Either John's in Sussex, or he's in Baker Street but just held back from full participation by his arm. 

He's not the only one held back. Age is catching up with the detective. John hopes he will accept it gracefully, but thinks he may not 'go gentle'.....he hopes Sherlock will learn to relax back into John's comforting arms and to simply allow himself to enjoy family life.

There are many positives. The children are getting older, and as they mature into their own little personalities, Sherlock is finding it easier to relate to them. 

He is, very very gradually, becoming the father they need him to be. 

....................

He already is, now, mostly, to his son, who utterly worships him. 

Parthalan says very little to anyone else, ever, he barely speaks, even to John who has cared for him since the day they brought him home to Baker Street; but when he thinks no one else is listening, he chatters and gabbles away to Sherlock while clinging to him like a little spider monkey. 

Once Parthalan could communicate with his Papa, Sherlock was transformed. 

Seeing their two dark heads close together makes John well up with tears, no matter how many times he sees it. He doesn't pretend to understand Parthalan any better than he does Sherlock, but he knows that they understand each other completely and that Parthalan now reaches Sherlock in ways even John can only wonder at.

...................

It will just take time with Ishbel, as it did with Parthalan; Sherlock's reticence is nothing to do with a lack of blood tie, John knows: to him, Ishbel is half-John, which means Sherlock worships the very idea of her. 

No, it is instead just her youth and vulnerability that holds him back, terrifies him, as it had with Parthalan. Emotionally he can only deal with babies and toddlers like he would have done his beloved Redbeard. Cuddle them, pat them on the head, possibly feed them (when he remembers). Run away if they scream or are ill or make too much noise. Not change them, not do the deep and detailed stuff babies need. 

But that will come, John knows. 

Through his children, Sherlock is rediscovering William Holmes bit by bit, the William he should have been free to be; William as he grows up within the man that is Sherlock, is releasing Sherlock to be a happier, less tortured human being. 

And John?

John's just here, looking on, smiling; glad to be alive, free, forgiven and loved; by the only man he's ever loved. 

William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End
> 
> Music
> 
> "The Promise"  
> Tracy Chapman
> 
> This, to me, is the greatest Johnlock song of all, because it's about strength, and dignity, and trust, and holding on with hope even when there seems to be none left.
> 
> *******
> 
> Notes: If you're not crying now, then I don't know what kind of monstrous excuse for a human you are, because I cried madly when I wrote it, and I cried again every single edit I did between then and publication, which was probably about fifteen times. Maybe I'm just a silly old weepy thing like Mrs Hudson.....:-DDD 
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this fic. This story, and this whole series, is about Sherlock and John's long journey in their relationship; and the lifelong struggles that Sherlock especially faces in these tales. 
> 
> I know that the ending of this tale is not a classic fix-it fairy tale, where Sherlock's issues all melt away to bees and honey, and Johns magic rainbow dick solves world conflict and hunger; but with the backstory created in this fic series, to me this IS a happy ending. 
> 
> As John says, not everything can be solved. Some things can only be managed, and sometimes managed is OK, managed is good, and we make our happy endings in good realities not fantasies.
> 
> This is the last instalment in this series. 
> 
> However I have written a short 3 chapter prequel, covers that Tipp-Exed out line in Sherlock's family records that Tamara his therapist notices. In other words, who was Sherrinford 'Sherry' Holmes and what happened to him: why does Sherlock say what he does to Mycroft, when lashing out in 'Part 3: Civil War...?'
> 
> I am also considering a follow up fic or fic series which will be parentlock and possibly a bit case-y. What happens to Mary and Rebecca will possibly also feature in that....:-)
> 
> I also have some ideas about an AU, so check in on my haffieliesel (soon to be renamed Teaandcakes to match A03) Tumblr account as I post regular updates on fic plans and progress!
> 
> So grateful for anyone who has got to the end! Just love you! This is my first ever fic of any kind for any fandom and 6 months and 200k+ words later I'm as in love with Sherlock, John and Mycroft as I was at the start! All credit to ACD and the BBC Sherlock team, especially the holy Mofftiss trinity :-))
> 
> Teaandcakes xxx


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